


fell up, threw down

by goodnightfern



Series: falling up 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of angelic lore, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Lore, Dean is a mom, Depression, Fallen Angels, Human Castiel in the Bunker, M/M, No Smut, POV Multiple, Pagan Gods, Sam and Dogs, abuse of demonic lore, alternatively: fell down threw up, i may be fucking up some mythos here but not any more than the show does, metaphysics of magic, that was an alcohol joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5622430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The spell works on all of the angels and Lucifer's punishment continues. As for Sam? He's gotta be hallucinating again. </p><p>(AU after 8.23)</p><p>Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucifer

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah i should've done this two years ago but the show is bringing lucifer back so quick let me slip this in before it all goes to crap

Atoms tremble and split. Hell is splintering at the seams. The Cage is unraveling, light screeching from the seams as the pocket dimension combusts. Lucifer is split open, vibrations scattering through the spheres then condensing and compressing. Hell cowers as the foundations rattle, some impossible force tearing the archangels free.

The Words of their Father have been spoken. That much is clear.

The inscription of the tablets was a mysterious affair. Lucifer had been sowing the seeds of rebellion, hovering amongst even malakh, as their Father disappeared with Metatron to the lower spheres. Whispers among the principalities spoke of the secrets of Creation - even their own Creation, but only the Voice knew, and the Voice was silent. Now the Voice thunders in the filaments, and Michael and Lucifer are pulled up, down, shattering and splintering through the channels of the Earth, until they suddenly coalesce in the first three dimensions.

All Lucifer sees are a pair of human hands in the grass. The hands twitch. Slippery, wet strands of grass slide against the fingertips.

The vessel is not empty. It's not exactly a human soul, but something twisted and huddled. Graceless. It's him, Lucifer realizes with numb sort of horror.

The body is crumpled in a field. There are other human bodies beneath. This is the cemetery where Sam Winchester first cast him into the Cage. When two humans averted what they thought had been their Father's will. All according to the great plan, in the end. But Sam, his true vessel, is not here. The muscles on his face twist as he looks at Nick's old body, burns repaired.

There is nothing left to burn through, anyways. Bones and blood and sinew fold together, the weight of them dragging on his consciousness. Lucifer looks up with human eyes and sees Michael. He has his unfavoured vessel as well. From human eyes they are only plain apes lying in the grass. Time drags and aches their bodies like nothing Lucifer has felt in six billion years.

The sunrise was once his glory, but now it simply paints the field in orange and pink, soft light filtered through rising mist. Once he was the Morning Star, and now it only warms his face.

"Is this our punishment, or our mercy?" Michael asks, but Enochian doesn't fit the human's vocal cords. Human voices are so small. Michael could raise seas with his voice. Lucifer erupted volcanoes with his voice. Something harsh and keening drags from his throat, against his will. He reaches for a Father with no answers.

-

Michael is on his knees, praying at the pulpit of the cemetery's small chapel. Lucifer tries to stretch his new body onto a pew. Adjusting joints and bones shouldn't come so naturally. He looks at his brother, curled in loathsome supplication. "Really? That ritual?"

Michael opens one eye. "If you have another idea to contact our brethren, I suggest you try it. Though I doubt any of them will respond to you."

At first Michael had simply waited for the angels. Whatever last trick God had played, he had still been their commander. Someone should have noticed the Cage opening, the sudden appearance and subsequent disappearance of an archangel's grace. When none came, he resorted to human methods. Michael pleads to first to the seraphs, to his closest chiefs. He calls to the aishim, to the elohim, to the malakim, to orders formed after Lucifer's punishment, but nothing answers.

Lucifer has his own order of angels he could call on, down in Hell who could've seen what happened. Not that Michael would call them angels, but they are still bright as their Father made them.

He recalls a bit of human magic - not that he was ever able to respond to a human summoning, but his chiefs often did. His teeth are too blunt to draw blood, but in the pew he finds an ink pen, and after a few messy, ink-smearing stabs he has enough blood to trace out the name of Asdarel. He stumbles on detailing the circle. It is the seventh hour since midnight, two moon cycles before the solstice, but the other minutae of human rituals escape him. There are new names for the days, a series of incantations. Humans have great difficulty accessing the currents of power, often resorting to recipes rather than will. Once he was the current, he tells himself. These current limitations are nothing. He forces his will into the seals and sigils, into his blood.

Asdarel does not show.

Neither do Mertiel and Serachiel.

Pausing, he realizes his ears are burning. He can hear something. Not the Song itself, but some weak stirring. Fear, confusion. He looks at Michael, suddenly silent at the pulpit. Tuned in. 

All of the angels have fallen. Some are seeking vessels; many more are fading into the seas and the earth.

Somehow, Lucifer's old vessel has been restored. God is protecting the Winchesters again. Even now his entire being yearns for Sam, for his Chosen vessel. Not this humiliation.

Definitely a punishment, then.

"This is not our Father's will," Michael spits. Already emotions are tainting them, twisting their voices. "The Voice - Metatron - I never trusted him."

"No, you envied the Voice. Never told our Father, did you?" Salt and warmth overwhelm him when he licks the blood from his fingertips. "He stopped loving us a long time ago, brother. This is His betrayal. First he set the humans over us, and now he drags us down to the mud." Something bubbles in his throat, forcing its way in choked gasps. Laughter, he realizes. Typically accompanied by joy, but there is nothing inside him anymore.

Eons of rage and light doused. The only vibrations are a heart beat and blood flow. Lungs expand and contract. Seven layers of skin over bones, fat, and muscle. Even the anger towards his Father is something small and dim, swallowed in the void. There is a stomach and a liver in his abdomen, but all he feels is an emptiness stretching as wide as his wings once did.

The boots on his feet are clumsy, heavy. He walks out the church, leaves Michael stunned and broken. Each step stirs up clouds of dust, crushes plants, kills small insects. Lucifer walking the Earth, leaving a trail of destruction. God's sense of humor.

He walks while his stomach begins to growl. He walks as aches set in his legs. He walks as his feet drag, as the sun travels across the sky, as his shoulders droop and a fuzziness clouds his brain. He walks down roads and past small lights of civilization. Great painted signs over his head. Trees taller than him. The sun sets and he walks. The sun rises and he walks. Humans look at him. Cars slow down past him. He walks. The sun sets again. Body overwhelmed, exhausted, and still he walks into blackness.

Then -

A white fluorescent light looks down at him. Thin blankets lying over him. Head lighter than it felt before, coolness streaking through his body. A pain in his arm when he lifts it, and he looks to see a needle taped there. Beyond the curtain encircling him humans are moaning in pain, talking to each other, feet hurrying. A short female pauses, smiling at him.

"Look who's awake!" She moves around him, fiddling with bits of plastic and machinery, chattering questions he cannot begin to answer, and the more she opens her mouth the more Lucifer wants to rip her teeth out. Yet when he tries to move, the needle in his arm pulls painfully, his legs don't respond quick enough.

"Hey, hey," she says. "I'm just gonna check your IV here, okay?" Winking up at a small black box poised in the upper corner of the room, she flips back pink bangs. An artificial color. "Those meteors really did a number, huh?"

"Meteors." It's some piece of human technology, but it displays the night sky. Stars falling from the sky. An apt representation in the human dimensions. Removed from reality on the little human box, he watches angels fall as just so many little streaks of light. The scene switches to painted faces seated at a table, moving their arms and lips.

"Still in shock," she sighs. "The doctor will be by soon, huh? How ya feeling?" Lucifer stares at the diamond in her nose. Her brow creases. "Do you know where you are?"

A new cage.

"I'm here," he says, and the darkness swallows him again.


	2. Sam

It's four months since the fall. The media has moved on to bigger and better things, but there's still conspiracy blogs on the internet. Sam clicks his way through accounts of ball lightning, forums of people whose loved one's seemed 'different' after the event. There's still preachers talking signs of the Apocalypse, gurus speaking of the cosmic change of 2012. From Quetzalcoatl returning to undeniable proof Obama is the Antichrist. Kevin's got a whole email alert program set up for this shit. Nothing else has really happened. Cas hasn't attempted any contact with other angels. Sometimes he will suddenly jolt, staring at someone across a department store or a lane of traffic or a diner, but just as quickly looks down. 

One day they're driving past a few farms, when suddenly he says "Dean, stop."

Dean frowns but pulls over. He's been overwhelmingly accomodating towards Cas these days.

Sam was pretty out of it after the fall, but he remembers Dean stomping around with a bottle in his hands, dialing and redialing before throwing his phone across the library. The storm didn't end until Cas called from the desk phone at a homeless shelter. 

"I told you, you shoulda peed before we hit the road," Dean says, but unlocks the door anyways. Cas tightens his lips and says nothing, slamming the car door shut. He goes up to a fence and stares at the horses. One of them walks up to him, and Cas reaches out past the fence, stroking a hairy muzzle with reverence. They stand with bowed heads for a moment, and then Cas simply gets back in the car. 

"Adramelech," he says to Sam and Dean's baffled stares. 

"An Angel? As a damn horse?" 

"I didn't even know angels could possess a horse."

"He had no wish to live a human life," Cas says, and falls silent for the rest of the drive the grocery. He sticks his hands into the pockets of his puffy black coat - donated to the Unity Gospel Safe Haven - and opts to stay in the car while they shop. 

"I don't think he cares," Sam says as Dean deliberates over the varieties of bread. Dean scowls at him, throws six different loaves into the cart. Then, because sandwich bread isn't good enough, he grabs a baguette and a pack of dinner rolls too. Dean has been blowing their credit cards up just on food these days, making elaborate plans in the kitchen. Cas eats whatever he's given. He shrugs when Dean asks him what he thinks.They know he likes cheese, at least, melted on burgers or soft-spread. Yet Cas will just as happily eat American processed slices as imported Brie. Sometimes Kevin even finds one of his veggie hot dogs missing, and that's just wrong. After billions of years without taste buds Cas has no idea what to do with them. Dean could just feed him Spaghettios.

After a weak moment hovering over the canned soup selection, Dean grabs a can of cream of mushroom soup. "Cas-seroles? Eh?" he says, forcing the smirk, and Sam wants to punch him.

Sam answers Cas's questions, but he doesn't try to drag him into anything. He sets Cas up with a credit card and finds him an old moped on Craigslist. No need for a formal driver's license or insurance, and he can't cause too much damage if he crashes. There's driving lessons - with other cars from the bunker's garage, not the Impala - but Cas used to travel at the speed of light. Dean belts out Sammy Hagar the first time Cas swings an old Bentley straight through a chain-link fence, but yeah, that's pretty fucking scary. 

"A fucking scooter?" Dean says when he sees it. "That thing won't even go thirty."

"That's the point," Sam tells him. "No license or insurance necessary."

"Come on, man, he'll get the hang of driving. And in the meantime, we can take him wherever he wants to go. What does he need baby's first chopper for? Where the hell is he gonna go?"

"I dunno. Ask Cas." Sam nods to the circling cloud of dust ahead, Cas going too fast. The little bike wobbles for a minute, then speeds down the road. "Or -" he swipes his phone, brings up the app, and shows Dean the blinking dot on the map. "Don't stalk him, okay?"

Turns out Castiel's Saturday night dates are with a soup ladle at the Safe Haven. Dean returns from his rescue mission subdued, and Sam hits him with the Mom jokes. It's fine until Cas doesn't wanna go on a hunt. In Dean's head it's still the family business, it's what they do, and there's a whole awkward scene in which Sam absolutely does not clear his throat. 

"You said it yourself, it's a simple salt-and-burn," Cas says, shrugging. He's watching cartoons again, turning them into his own metaphysical parable.

"Yeah, I mean, shouldn't take any longer than two days." Dean sticks his phone in Castiel's face, shoving it closer when Cas doesn't look. "See, it's not too long of a drive even."

"That's... good."

"It's a library ghost. You'll have fun."

"Dean, it's Friday."

"We'll get you back in time for your, uh, dinner plans."

"Complications could arise," Cas says. "You said it shouldn't take any longer. That means two days, minimum. So I shouldn't even epect your return until Sunday." The cartoon characters break into song and he finally squints up at Dean. "I'll see you then."

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay, then."

It's not okay. Dean's elbows are locked as he drives. He's gonna hurt himself doing that. Bumping up the Motorhead, playing bad cop, typical No-I-don't-wanna-talk-about-it-Samantha crap. When they finally hit the motel and Dean pulls out his phone with vague mutterings about Cas destroying the kitchen Sam takes his cue to go find them some food. The Impala rolls in slow circles around town for an hour or so, giving Dean time to whatever-the-fuck. Food selection isn't too great in this town, so he takes him time deliberating. He lived long enough in California that he won't eat Mexican in the Midwest, and he isn't in the mood for burgers. There's a Denny's, but he's probably eaten every item on the menu there twenty times over. He's about to give up and pick up Domino's or a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store, but then he finds a Chinese place that doesn't look too bad. Fried rice and Mongolian beef. Sam pulls into the parking lot. 

Just before he flicks off the headlights, he sees it.

He turns the headlights back on. 

Sam is done with the hallucinations, but he still can't trust his eyes.

There's no way Lucifer is taking out the garbage behind a Chinese restaurant in Fair Grove, Missouri. The man taking out the garbage straightens under the headlights. He's peering at the Impala. Confusion, not recognition. .Must be that old vessel, Sam tells himself. There was a man in there, once. 

Nick should be catatonic somewhere, if he isn't dead. 

It's just some random white dude. Wondering why a big black car seems to be stalking him. The guy heads towards the back door of the restaurant.

In the end, he gets the rotisserie chicken, a pre-made chef salad, a six pack. He hovers in front of the liquor selection. Shit. Don't pull a Dean. Focus. No drowning. Deep breaths, right. My name is Sam Winchester. I'm in Fair Grove, Missouri, and the time is 8:22 pm. 

He's fine. Anyways, there's probably already a bottle in their motel room. Maybe he'll even get back in time to have some.


	3. Castiel

Two hours after Dean and Sam leave, Cas hops on his moped and goes back to the farm. Adramalech is standing with other horses under a white oak. He lifts his head as the moped sputters to a stop.

"Please, brother."

The thoughts of the angel press into his mind. Even after the fall, some scrap of the old Song is present. 

_We haven't been brothers in ages._

"Heaven and Hell no longer divide us."

_No. Now we are nothing._

Cas hoists himself up on the fence. The other horses shy away and Adramalech whinnies, fixing Castiel with a long-lashed eye. "Why are you here, Adramalech?"

 _First, your pet humans rattled the foundations of hell. Then the Voice cast us out. This you know already._ Snorting, he lowers his head and yanks up a mouthful of grass.

Cas persists. "I - we believed the spell was only to cast angels from Heaven. You mean it affected the ones in Hell, too? All of them, even... the ones in the Cage?"

_The Cage was broken by the force of the spell. The archangels themselves nearly destroyed the filaments of Hell._

"Michael, Lucifer, all of the Fallen."

Adramalech neighs. _Right. According to your kind, we were already fallen. Now you see the difference. Anything else, Castiel?_

The syllables of his true name sound wrong. Castiel was an angel. Now he is just Cas. Lucifer's former first chief is a horse waiting to die, and according to Kevin's translations the spell is irreversible. It's true, then. The triumph of their species has ended. 

_Leave, Castiel._

Sunlight beats down on his helmet, sticking his hair to his brow. With one hand he unclips it and lets the wind sting his eyes and toss his hair. It's nothing like flight, but he rides and rides until he can no longer feel his face.

The tablet translation is still a work in progress. By the time he reminds himself of this and returns to the bunker, the lights are off and Kevin's door is locked. From his room Cas hears the sounds of guns firing, people shouting. Video games. The boy is still grieving his mother. When he isn't buried in work he's absorbed in his media. Depression has clung to him for a while now. Cas may no longer be able to see his soul, but he notes the outward signs as well. Sam, Dean, all of them are used to giving him space. Let Kevin lose himself in whatever he needs to do. 

Cas needs to find another way to lose himself. The adrenaline of the moped ride has tired his body. Volunteering at the shelter is good, but the same tired drag of humanity wears him down. Anyone could scoop stew into a bowl. Food doesn't save the lost souls he sees. Even for him food is a bare comfort, warm sensations in his gut that silence the stomach and energize his cells. 

Dean has taught him many things about humanity. Whiskey turns sour in the morning, but for now it's a soothing balm. He drinks until opening the dungeon sounds like a good idea. Crowley can mock him all he wants. He's the one in chains with a kingdom in shambles. If all of Lucifer's generals have been forced from Hell as well, the kingdom is worse off than he imagined.

Go down to the dungeon. Maybe give Crowley a bowl of his human blood, let him make a call. Let him see exactly what has happened. That means pulling himself up off the couch. It's a stupid idea, but there's no one to stop him. 

Something vibrates in his pocket and he jerks. His phone clatters to the floor. Dean calling. Sliding screen with his toe, he tries to reject the call and fails. Dean's voice sounds tinny and small, and he reluctantly flips over on the couch, dangling a hand to hit speaker.

"Hello, Dean."

"Heya, Cas. My, uh, my voice sounds weird. You got me on speaker?"

"Yes. I'm.... I'm preparing a meal."

"Yeah? Make sure you clean up after yourself."

"It's just bread," Cas says. Mouth pressed against the cushions, tasting fuzz. He should eat something. Dean is asking him now what kind of bread he's eating, and he wheezes in annoyance. "The brown bread. With sunflower seeds," he guesses. There was a lot of bread from the last grocery trip. All of it was brown. Some of it had seeds. Sunflower seeds, he has to remember to keep the lie intact.

"You like it?"

"Yes."

"I got a bunch of different breads. Try 'em all. You know how to use the toaster, right?"

"Um. I think so." With a groan Cas heaves himself from the couch, picks up the phone and carries it to the kitchen. Indeed there is a seeded loaf. Seven seeds. He tears open the bag and chews a dry slice. Now it isn't a lie. Dean is talking about the case. Periodically he pauses as if for air, but the telltale sound of a swallow lets Cas know he's not the only one getting drunk tonight. "Dean."

"And, y'know, it was in the kids section, right? So we had to do the child psychologists thing again, cause the parents were being dicks and -"

"Dean"

"- pretty hot couple, really, but -"

"Dean, shut up."

"Whassat?" A laugh bellows out of the phone. "Shit, Cas, you drinking?"

"Yes," he growls. "Listen. I. I'm gonna go talk to Crowley."

"Whoa. Whoa, dude, no. Wait till we're back, you can't just -"

"The horse."

"Horse? How drunk are you?"

"The - Adramalech, Dean! He was one of Lucifer's angels, Dean. It wasn't just Heaven. It was all of the angels." The bread was swallowed too fast and not chewed enough. Another sip from the whiskey doesn't help it go down. "All of the angels, Dean. Even the ones in Hell."

"The Cage...."

"Broken."

"Shit. Shit, fuck!"

Cas chuckles and leans against the table. Water. He needs water. In the meantime, he eats another bite of bread. "I don't think we have the apocalypse to worry about. Lucifer and Michael will be as broken as the rest of us."

"Cas, listen -"

"The era of angels is over, Dean. It's all gonna go back to the pagans now. Did I - did I ever tell you about that? Wars we fought.... I was a commander, Dean." Leaving the phone on the counter, he finds a glass and fills it at the sink. 

"Dammit, Cas-!"

He wavers over the phone. He can't continue this conversation. Thoughts are smearing together, words sticking in his throat. "I'll see you when you get back," he says lamely, and ends the call. Dean dials back three more times, but he leaves his phone on the table, sways down onto the couch.


	4. Lucifer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for references to rape.
> 
> (no actual rape happens)

Avian species incorporate song and dance into their mating rituals. The dance of the blue-footed booby is sublimely crafted. Humans, too, lift their feet and throw back their heads, but there's nothing musical about their cries. Muffled screams draw Lucifer nearer to the scene in the alley. The female of this particular couple, in fact, seems to be unwilling to comply with the dance. She punches her mate in the nose and gets her wrists snapped back for it. A forced attempt at coupling, then.

Yet another way humans disgrace the design. The Father gave humans the bliss of orgasm to bind mating pairs, not to use against each other. 

Lucifer yanks the man back by the collar of his coat. He swears, drops the woman's arms, and faces him. Thick, sweet fumes of alcohol drip from his lips, teeth bared. 

"Mind ya fucking business," he shouts, and a fist collides into Lucifer's nose. A sharp smack of pain, blood rushing to the spot. Intending to squeeze the esophagus, Lucifer grabs his throat and gets a knee to the groin. Sensitive spot for humans. 

Killing is a lot harder than it used to be. 

The energy of this fight, though, fills him with a pure heat. Almost reminiscent of grace. The woman is screaming at them, but he ignores her until distant wail of sirens draws closer.

"STOP!" she screams.

She should want to watch her attacker die. This isn't right. Weak, pitiful humans, so susceptible to trauma.

"Jesus, stop," she huffs. "I - um - thank you, but - I called 911."

Lucifer looks at the man, head slumped against the brick. Coughing up blood. Still alive. The woman clinging to a chain link fence, terrified. No time to ask what she's thanking him for. Already he knows what the sirens mean. He climbs a dumpster, hops over the chain link fence, and runs.

Before his shift tomorrow, he'll have to purchase a new shirt. 

Lucifer got the job because the owner was impressed he was fluent in both Vietnamese and Spanish. There is not a single Chinese person working at the restaurant, though it claims to serve authentic Chinese cuisine. Cultures mix and marry all over the place these days. He wrinkles his nose at the sloppy leavings of customers and sprays plates down with a hose. Sometimes the dishwasher gets stuck and he has to slam it up and down a few times. The drain clogs and he has to stick his hands down it, grapple slime and particles of food. Dinner rush is a rhythm of controlled chaos, his hands and feet moving in unision. For a few hours his mind can cleave to the work and forget the body. At the end of the week he will get an envelope of cash. Lucifer has no reason to doubt this, but also no reason to trust, so at the end of the night he steals packets of cookies and vegetables from the walk-in. If he doesn't get cash at the end of the week, he will kill the business owner with one of the long knives in the kitchen and empty out the register. 

Money is the most important thing for survival, he has learned. He has to survive until he finds the Winchesters. The only time his Father seems to intervene is when his pets are at risk. If God won't reply to Lucifer, He will reply to a knife at Sam's throat. If God will deny him his own vessel, then He can kill Lucifer and end this punishment. At the very least, he can get an answer. Frequencies of the other angels still vibrate through the particles of the atmosphere. Many are seeking God like him. It isn't clear how many of them are focused on the Winchesters - Castiel and the Voice are largely to blame. He wonders about Castiel sometimes - loyal seraph general turned rebel in the name of love. Not that Lucifer has much love left for his Father.

T-shirts come in packs of threes at the convenience store. After the necessary period of sleep, interrupted once by a sniffing dog, he reports again to the back door of the restaurant. 

Another day flies by.

Towards the end of the night, he takes out the garbage. Something about the stench of rot amuses him. Once these upright apes scrounged for food in the wilderness, eating every organ of the animal, wasting nothing. Now they hurl their leavings into plastic bags and dump them in landfills. Sweat cooling on his skin in the night air, an escape from the humidity in the kitchen - but these are human things he does not enjoy.

So he's taking out the garbage when headlights flicker behind him. Off, then on. The massive black car growls in the parking lot. He squints in the too-bright light, and recognizes the vehicle too late.

Sam.

Human feet are no match for four wheels. He slams into a passing man, shoving him off, but the taillights of the Impala have disappeared into the night.


	5. Sam

"Shit, Dean!"

Encased in its plastic dome, the rotisserie chicken hits the ground without incident. 

"And now he won't even pick up the damn phone! He's fucking drunk." Amber liquid sloshes in his glass as he waves to the phone. "He's losing it, Sam. We gotta go back." 

"No - fuck, Dean, I just saw him!"

"Who, Cas?"

"Lucifer!"

"What the -"

Bellowing in the motel room isn't helping. Hair flying, Sam whips around and grabs the keys from where he set them down not five minutes ago. 

"Hey! Sam!"

"Just get in the car." Sam hisses. The Impala screeches, Dean helpless in the passenger seat.

Lights out at the Chinese restaurant. Sam parks in front of the rear door, hands twitching on the steering wheel. If he stares hard enough at the door, it will open..

"You wanna tell me what's going on, Sam?" Dean is voice is tight, but calm. Staying above it. Watching Sam. 

Calm down. Center yourself. Find yourself. My name is Sam Winchester. It's 9:22 pm. I'm in Fair Grove, Missouri with my drunk brother behind a restaurant that is clearly empty because I think the Devil works there. Yeah. "I thought. Fuck. After all - I thought I was hallucinating or something, but I saw him, Dean. He was wearing, like, an apron and taking out the trash."

"What, Satan's cooking chow mein now?"

"Who knows! If the archangels fell too, then they're down in the dirt with the rest of us, right? We gotta find him, Dean." He pulls out his phone and types a hasty search for 'murders deaths killers fair grove'. A bunch of shit from the wrong states and a few wiki articles on serial killers. Get your shit together, Sam. Amending the search brings the local police blotter. A car was jacked two hours ago. Two televisions reported stolen earlier today. Last night, something about domestic violence and public intoxication. Unknown assailant assaults the perpetrator. Witness reported - a middle-aged blond man in an apron? Lucifer to the rescue? "I dunno. Maybe. I could've been wrong. It was only a second, it was dark..."

"God dammit, did you see him or didn't you?"

"Sorry if I don't exactly have a history of trusting sudden appearances of Satan!"

Dean winces at that and falls silent. The past few months, Sam has been... drifting. Whatever the trials did to him, the recovery has been a slow burn. Memories congeal, dreams overtaking reality, but according to Dean he was sleeping eighteen hours a day like a damn cat. Chicken broth and saltine crackers, fevers and chills. No windows in the bunker, no days or nights. It was five weeks before he saw the sun again, and his first instinct was to retreat and lie down in the dark. But he's been resting, being careful, and he's getting better. Dean scoffed at the yoga and meditation at first, but it helped. Sometimes he still has bad days, but he's been good for a solid month now. Awake, clear-headed, maybe not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed but better, dammit. Solid. He meets Dean's even gaze and sees the terror behind it. 

This stupid library ghost was a test not just for Cas, but for Sam too. 

Sam hands his phone to his brother. "Read that."

"Huh. You think it's the same guy?"

"Yeah." With both hands Sam smears back his hair, squeezing his cheeks together. "I mean, that's. No way."

"Heh, yeah. Not really Satan's style."

Sam should say something. Agree. Laugh it off. 

"Well.... look. We'll talk to the witness tomorrow, okay? Victim." Dean frowns, scrolling through the full report. "The guy didn't exactly stick around, and apparently he almost killed Mr. Creepshow. That's... weird, right? He may be an evil son of a bitch, but -"

"Punishing evil-doers was his job once." Sam nods.

"So. Fed suits, say we're looking for some missing person or fugitive or whatever. I mean, shit. If we're right, we find his ass and ice it. If we're wrong, who cares, we're still golden. Bada bing, bada boom."

It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Looking at his brother, Sam sees the center. The rock his self-help books tell him to look for. Cracked, maybe, teetering... okay, fine. They're fucked. Sam's not okay, Dean's not okay. Still. He's got his big brother looking out for him. Fucked, but not broken. He grins at his brother, and maybe Dean's answering smile is stretched a bit too far from the booze but it's good, they're good. "Before or after we burn that book?"

"After. We gotta save storytime first, Sammy."


	6. Lucifer

If the Winchesters are here, they'll be in some motel. Lucifer stays out of them, preferring underpasses and bushes. Motel rooms stink of other humans. They fornicate on those beds. An image of a neon pink flamingo pops in his memory. It's only two miles away.

The Impala is not at the flamingo motel. 

The teal block building across the street lacks an Impala as well. There's more motels in this town, but human memory is fleeting. He hasn't been paying enough attention. Well, the town is small enough. But passing headlights sting his eyes. The heat of summer is intensified in the kitchen, enough to make his head ache and his clothes stick to him. Heat still simmers from the sidewalks even though night has fallen. Yet the cooled sweat on his body makes him twitch, which only intensifies the soreness in his shoulders. His feet are growing heavier.

Lucifer may stuck in a graceless form, but not for much longer. As soon as he finds Sam. To a being that witnessed the birth of the planet, a few months on a lesser species calender hold no significance. All over he walks, looking anywhere the Winchesters might frequent, disregarding pedestrians and the honks of cars - 

God always said Lucifer was slow to learn. Too prideful.

Well.

Being able to admit that only goes to show that his Father isn't infallible. The evidence is undeniable, if he's committed the same mistake twice. He stretches an arm over his eyes to avoid the sudden light and examines the room. Not a hospital, but a soft bed draped in mosquito netting. Clothing littered by the closet, a glass of water on the nightstand. A pipe filled with ash. Images of exotic birds, beaches, and mandalas on dingy walls. His apron is hanging from the doorknob, and his tongue is a dry sponge in his throat. 

"Heya, Batman." A phrase too inane and baffling to consider a response. Another short female, hair loose and curling around a guarded smile, leans in the doorway. "Drink that. You're dehydrated." Indicating towards the glass, she tilts her head. "Tried to get some down you earlier but, uh... yeah."

The first cool swallow makes him gasp. Everything in him trembles and surges, and he gulps the glass down too fast. He retches as bile creeps up his throat, pants for air. "Please don't puke again." She edges into the room, hesitant, and Lucifer recognizes the woman from the alley. 

" 'member me? Brandy? Nah, you didn't get my name. Got you more water." Wielding a pitcher between them, she points to the cup Lucifer dropped on the blanket. "Don't get my sheets wet. I mean, I'll guess I'll hafta wash them anyways." She fills his glass, watches him nearly choke himself again trying to drink it down. "Looks like I get to save you this time."

His voice is more of a croak. "Not... no."

"Yeah, you did. Saved my ass and nearly took out Mickey. I mean, you were kind of.... Mickey was... look, his bitchass is in jail, okay? I dunno what your deal is, and I don't care. I just got to thank you for that." With a wrinkle of her nose she sits on the edge of the bed, reaches for his forehead. Lucifer leans away, and she swats at him. "Look, you was passed the hell out on my street, okay? I dunno what you were on, but you were gone. You got a fever, anything?" Brandy brushes his hair back, presses her hand briefly. "You're cold."

Lucifer tries to rise, but she tuts, presses him back down. "Just - just stay down for now. Imma get you something to eat, okay?" Tugging the blanket, she sighs and moves to exit, but then turns. 

"Oh, and no worries. I'm no snitch."

"Snitch?" Lucifer asks, but she's already gone. He should get up and leave, but his pitiful legs won't move. He should've knocked the girl's teeth out for daring to touch him. Wrapped the mosquito netting around her throat. Torn her soul apart on the rack. Imagining the act brings no comfort. Oddly enough, the more he considers the idea the less attractive it sounds. 

Brandy comes back with a burrito on a paper plate. Molten on the edges, icy in the middle. The first bite he takes it nearly breaks in half. Brandy pulls up a chair, settles in with her chin on her hands and watches him eat. 

"Look, you don't need to tell me," she says finally, "but I'm asking. Fucking feds were at my door. You know?"

"Feds." 

"Shit, you know what sentences is?"

"Your grammar is a disgrace to your language," Lucifer observes.

Brandy laughs. "Okay, asshole."

He lunges, reaching for the strings on her sweater. Immediately she recoils, falling back in the chair. 

"I'm not asking about anuses. Feds, what is that? Some slang?"

"Federal agents, man! Calm your ass!"

That's it. Typical disguise of the Winchesters.

"They left a card, but I didn't say shit, okay? I mean - I smoke weed," she says, voice dropping to a whisper. "You think I want feds up in my business?"

"One of them was tall. Long hair. Yes?" Brandy nods, dumbly. The half-eaten burrito lands in a tangle of blankets as he struggles to raise himself from the bed. "Call them back. Now."


	7. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's where we get rly weird

Every muscle in his body wants to stay on the couch, but somehow Cas makes it to the kitchen. Coffee. Dean likes to put a shot - just a shot - in to manage a hangover, but the bottle Cas grabbed last night is empty. There is a warm pot half-full, and Kevin is frying veggie dogs. Cas shuffles to the stove, ignoring Kevin's appraising glance. The skillet tingles his fingers when he pops a sausage in his mouth. Too hot, but the fatty taste soothes his roiling stomach.

"You could ask," Kevin mutters, hunched over the stove. "What, no ketchup? Cream cheese?" 

"...no. Thank you." Sitting at the table, he tries to piece himself together. Recall last night. Regret and Dean wrap together in his mind. 

Cas drinks three cups of coffee before Kevin approaches him. The kid looks exhausted, unnaturally alert. It's the middle of the night for Kevin, but the clock on the wall says it's ten in the morning. "So. Look. In the tablets, I've been finding these references, right? I dunno what he's talking about. But I think you do."

An assortment of notes spills out in front of Castiel. His head is pounding. He can't read this right now. Cas cringes over his coffee mug. 

"Some kind of war, way back in the day. I'm talking like, before Heaven and Hell even existed. You know, the demon tablet, too, it kept alluding to something like this. I mean, he talks about some... treaty? It's all so... weird, man. I don't know what's going on. It's just kind of an offhand allusion to some big events and I'm here trying to pick up the bits, but it's big. Really big."

"You mean the wars with the pagans," Cas drawls. 

"What?"

"It was our first major war...right around the time you started worshipping fire." When humans first began to find gods. Started naming them, the power of their belief intensifying what had once been dormant forces. "Even I don't know the exact details. It was between my Father and the pagan lords of the dead." Running a hand through his hair, Cas sighs. He doesn't want to remember those days. The memories themselves don't fit in his new brain. Some things humans will never comprehend, and reconciling his past and his current self is... impossible. Already Cas knows he has forgotten much of what Castiel knew. But he remembers the wars, the garrison he commanded. "Heaven and Hell," he continues, dry tongue fumbling with the words, "were once... the same. Even Purgatory. Everything that died, their souls gathered into the sphere of the dead. The first one, just outside of your planet's atmosphere. As life grew in complexity, so the available energy grew, and the first wars over resources began. We... the angels, we conquered the celestial spheres. Engulfed the boundaries, claimed all the souls in the name of our Father. Before humans... the dinosaur extinction, I believe that was some of the fallout on your planet." 

"Dinosaurs?" 

"Quetzalcoatl's beasts. In the end we formed some sort of peace treaty with the old gods. I never knew the details, but they surrendered to the power of our Father and ceded the planet to us. When Lucifer rebelled, we formed the dimensions of Heaven and Hell, and - you know the rest." Cas huffs over his mug. "Can I have another hot dog?"

"Go get it yourself," Kevin says, pen skittering over a post-it pad. "This is good, this can help. Damn, I wish we had the demon tablet."

Speaking of demons. He waits until Kevin is gone before he descends to the dungeon. Another cup of coffee and a sharpened kitchen knife in his hands, he hesitates before the row of shelves. Dean did say to wait. Well, Dean's been down here a few times on his own. Always emerging red-faced and furious, brushing off Castiel's questions. Nothing on Abbadon, all quiet on the demon front. It stings a bit, that Dean doesn't trust him with Crowley. But there's a lot Dean doesn't know. 

"Found Abbadon, have we?" The light sputters on. Crowley sits impeccable as always, even after months in fetters. "Ah. Hello, Feathers. Have you got any lotion? I'm quite sore." The leer fades when Cas drains his coffee, sets the mug on the table, and puts the knife to his forearm. "Where's your keepers, angel?"

"Out."

"So Mummy and Daddy are away, and the mice will play?"

Blood drains into the mug. Beneath his suit-jacket, Crowley's shoulders shift, foundations of pretense and innuendo crumbling before Cas's cold severity. The games aren't necessary, not between them. "Make a call," Cas orders. 

"You. Want me. To call Hell."

Cas shrugs, moves as it to take the mug. "If you don't want to-"

"What game are you playing at? Squirrel doesn't know you're here, does he?"

"Right." Grabbing the mug, Cas turns. Droplets of blood whisk across the table.

"Wait a minute, feathers. Just... grant me a request."

"Oh?"

"Just a walk." Chains jingle as he makes as if to raise his hands. "Fresh air, sun on my face. Stretch me legs a bit. Ten minutes, all I'm asking. I'll make whatever bloody call you want."

"Chains on."

"Of course, darling. Chains on."

Cas drags him through the bunker, nearly tripping him over his fetters. Fortunately Kevin doesn't show. As far as Kevin is concerned, Crowley should be dead. That's not a fight Cas is willing to have without Sam and Dean to back him up. It's another dusty, placid summer day. Bright sunlight sends Crowley reeling, but Cas jerks the chains and keeps him steady. 

"Thanks, dear," Crowley drawls. then purses his lips and whistles. Down the road, the howls of dogs. Feet pounding, a cloud of dust raising from the gravel road. "Good girls.... what are you looking at, Feathers?" 

He's too busy giving Castiel a triumphant grin to notice what's wrong until six brown-furred bodies collide into their master and nearly bowl him over. The slack-jawed expression is something to remember. A bustle of wagging tails and tongues surround Crowley, licking and leaping. Cas drops the chains and lets him fall. 

"Yes - darling - oh, Daddy missed you too - no, no, bad dogs, Daddy's in trouble here - I'm sorry, Juliet - no, him, the angel - sweetie, please - sic em, good boy, sic em-" A German Shepherd nudges Cas's crotch, tongue lolling out with a big doggy smile. Arms wrapped around a big collie and some small fluffy creature, Crowley is pure murder, roaring, eyes red. "What. Have you done. TO MY HELLHOUNDS!"

Suspicions confirmed, Cas shrugs. "It seems Hecate has a sense of humor."

"Hecate? That old biddy, what's she - yes, Ophelia, there's a girl - what do you mean - down, Alonso, please -"

"Are you ready to make that call?" 

"Fine," Crowley snarls. Shaking off dogs, he pulls himself to his feet with difficulty. "There's a dear. Come on, sweeties."

Back in the dungeon, Crowley mutters the incantation. A Chihuahua hops from his lap onto the table, nosing the mug as the blood sputters and boils. Cas waves the dog away since Crowley's wrists have been re-bolted down. It snuffles into his hand, wet nose. Hellhounds they may be, but Cas finds himself drawn to the creature. 

"This isn't right," Crowley says. "This -"

The dungeon rattles. Dogs whine, some scampering to the corners, some cringing under their master's chair. A female voice booms, the mug cracking and blood pooling on the table. Chains rattling, Crowley makes fists, and Cas finds himself crouching over the Chihuahua in his lap. 

Just as suddenly, everything stills. A tall, olive-skinned woman stands to the right of the table. Hecate's eyes are an impassive grey, skating over them. When she throws back her head and laughs, it thunders beneath their feet. Hecate is everything Castiel remembers and more, crackling the seams of reality, stretching the dimensions of the dungeon to impossible depths. Her cloak is starlight and shadow, and the dogs are snuffling at the hem. With gentle grace she strokes their heads, murmurs to them, and gradually they sink under her spell.

"Lucifer's usurper. And young Castiel. Why do you call upon my domain?"

" _Your_ domain -" Crowley begins.

"Mine once again, as it was before. How did a human soul ever get so dark? And these poor animals... so twisted, when I found them." she muses. "Your father has paid his dues, Castiel. I believe we have you and the Voice to thank, for playing your part."

Crowley tries again. "Excuse me, but -"

"Yes?" When she inclines her head, lightning crackles in her eyes. "Little soul, you have fought your way up. But the crossroads are mine again. All in accordance with the Ahura Mazda. Do you not know what has happened to your own kingdom? What did you call it, Hell? Lucifer letting those maimed souls run freely through dimensions, twisting them into demons, interfering with the living... poor management, all around."

"It was business!" Crowley insists, spittle flecking his lips, eyes flaring red.

"Capitalists," she sniffs. "Listen, demon, if you even still are one. Hell, as you know it, no longer exists. I am the Warden of the Dead, and the balance has been restored."

Subatomic waves quiver and wrench at Castiel's body, flopping him to the floor. The shelves in the dungeon splinter, the concrete floor cracking under his hands. Panting, he raises his head. But Hecate is gone, and Crowley's face is a blank. "Well," he says finally, mustering up the last of his dignity. Dodging Juliet's tongue, he raises his head. "You'd best tell me what is going on, angel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i regret posting this as a wip
> 
> not familiar with [hecate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hecate)? she's my boo, and i figured she'd make a good Warden of the Dead.


	8. Sam

"Are you shitting me?" Tires screeching, the Impala manages an impossible U-turn. They were maybe two miles from the trailer park when Brandy called, rolling through a placid residential area.

Sam shrugs. "She kept asking me what he's on. Apparently, he's... passed out again."

"Passed out," Dean says incredulously.

"She found him suffering from, uh..." Holding up his fingers, Sam lists it off. "Exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition, and shock."

"What is she, Lucifer's nurse?"

"A CNA. Oh, and she knows we're not real Feds. I guess Satan told her we were friends. Looking for him."

Frowning at Sam is more important than looking at the goddamn road. "Friends? What the crap? He's playing at something, Sam."

"Maybe, but he's human now. And apparently not doing so hot. Maybe he is on something. I dunno."

Dean jabs a finger at him. "Yeah - well - he was in your fucking head, Sam!"

Shrugging, Sam pockets his phone. "I mean, if he's really that bad off, I think we can take him. Who knows. Weren't you all gung-ho on finding him before?"

Gnawing at his lip, Dean considers. "You think she'll give us trouble? Brandy? She seems a little-"

"Kinda freaked out by the whole thing and just wants us to take him off her hands?"

Dean snorts, but he doesn't say anything. They've got a trunk full of weapons. Brandy had just furrowed her brows at Dean's poorly-masked Christo cough. If she was a fallen angel, she would've known them. True, she did lie to Federal Agents - in her own mind, at least. But she's also living in a low-income area where cops aren't exactly trusted, and whatever ulterior motives Lucifer had he did save her just the other night. Once again, the Impala stops in front of Brandy's teal-blue trailer. Dean cocks his head, elbows Sam. Crashing sounds, shouting. They sprint towards the door but before they even get there it slams open. Brandy is wild-eyed, hair frizzled.

"He's up," she says. "I dunno what he's on, but you guys need to get him out ASAP."

Lucifer staggers up behind her, a steak knife dangling from his hand.

"Get back, Brandy," he says softly. "This is between me and my father."

It's too easy to grab Lucifer's wrist and bend it back when he lunges. He's completely silent even as his wrist dislocates, only his back folding up to give away the pain. Sam just stares, dumbfounded. Brandy sighs and rubs her temples. Lucifer wriggles against Sam's grip, straining his neck back to bare his teeth at Sam. Wow.

Nick was a big guy - smaller than Sam, but still. Lucifer the angel was a force of nature. Lucifer the human just looks half-starved and desperate. His shirt is stained and splattered; he isn't wearing the apron anymore, and his hair clings to a sweaty brow. Anger burns in his eyes, but the more Sam looks the more he sees it isn't directed at him, or even Dean. "You need to understand, Sam," he gasps even as Sam grabs his other arm and twists him around, presses him down. "I need to speak to my father."

"Okay. Sure." Sam is still too dumbfounded to really process. The Devil is sagging against him. During his first year at Stanford, Brady smoked a joint laced with a bit of something else. Sam had held his wrists and let him thrash, while Jess hovered over the couch with a glass of water that never ran dry. Gleaning from the memory, Sam focuses on the body in his hands. Feels a fluttering, over-hyped pulse. Hyperventilation. Sam's knees are bent up around Lucifer, holding him in the space between. He's in control. He's in charge. My name is Sam WInchester. I'm in Fair Grove, Missouri, I don't know what fucking time it is, but something that used to be Devil is kind of having a breakdown here.

Above him Dean chuckles, pulls the gun from the small of his back and thumps it against his thigh. "You tried praying?".

"Praying?" Lucifer's laugh is more of a sob. "He reconstructed a dead vessel just to protect you, Sam. You need. I need. Sam, let me-"

Always with the permission. "Let you what?"

"He put me here to protect you," Lucifer growls. "He drew me up from hell, put me in this vessel, stole my grace-"

"Sorry to break it to you, but that was Metatron." The safety clicks off. Dean's leaning over Sam to press the muzzle of the gun into Lucifer's hair.

Brandy flips the fuck out. Okay, so maybe they shouldn't be doing this on her front porch. Brandy's been through enough, she doesn't need to watch some dude's brain splatter all over her doorway. Sam mutters a quick thanks to her as he drags Lucifer into the car. There's plenty of rope to tie him up with. Lucifer has gone slack, wilted. His face is blank as Sam ties a triple knot around his wrists, circles it around his torso. Grabbing an old T-shirt from his duffel, Dean stuffs it into Lucifer's mouth to serve as a gag, shrugging at Sam's raised brow. Signs plead children at play but Dean speeds anyways. They're just exiting the trailer park when the sky turns dark and the Impala grinds to a stop, rattling. Dean opens his mouth to swear, but a steel gaze meets his eyes through the rearview mirror.

A woman pushes at Lucifer, trying to settle in the back seat of the Impala. Lucifer is moaning something around his gag. Dean nearly breaks his seat belt when he whips around to brandish his gun in the woman's face. With a tired smile she simply nods at the gun, and Dean gawks at it falls out of his grip.

"Hush," she says, and her voice vibrates. "Your father has a message for you, child." She brushes at Lucifer's hair. He's cringing in the backseat, trying to make himself as small as possible. Sam grabs Dean by the elbow. Wait. They're stopped in the middle of the road, but no one's coming.

"Mmf frr?" Lucifer says, and suddenly the gag falls from his throat. "Where is he?" Her smile only slides wider. "Where is he, Hecate?"

"He's retired," she says smoothly. "He's found a new planet he wants to work on - sentient gases or something, I don't know. And Dean, tell Castiel he's sorry. I forgot to tell him before. The Voice was not supposed to involve him, but." It's more of an earthquake than a shrug. "He was selfish, and thought to preserve himself. Angels." A deep laugh thunders through the Impala, straining Sam's eardrums, but she just shakes her head like kids, what can you do?

Spit flies from Dean's mouth. "Cas? What did you do to him? Who the fuck - He-catay or whoever the hell you are-"

"Silence." Lo and behold, Dean's mouth slams shut. "I'm talking to Lucifer."

Lucifer is cringing away from her, as far as he possibly can, but he lifts his head and meets her gaze with staid confidence. "What does my father say?"

"Stand down. Learn your lesson. Stop being so self-centered," she adds. "You're not the only one who has fallen."

"So. I take it - ?"

"Yes. My domain has been restored." Reaching across the backseat, she rests a hand on Lucifer's shoulder. "You haven't been the King of Hell in a while, haven't you. But it was never about that. Still so slow to learn. Stand down, Lucifer."

It was a sweltering, sunny day. Now clouds have shrouded the sun. and when Hecate disappears they split open, pouring down rain. The car starts up before Dean is even ready to drive again. He's quiet, looking away from the road only to grab the gun from where it fell, stick it in the front pocket of his coat. Rain creeps down and fogs the windows. When Sam dares a look into the rearview mirror he sees Lucifer huddled, numb.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean takes them to a diner because that's what you do. When everything's gone to shit, when you don't know where to look, you find a diner and eat a greasy plate the size of your head. Rules of the road. He's thumbing out a text to Cas, sparing not a glance for the waitress. The Impala is clearly visible from their window, stuck between a Dodge Caravan and a beat-up Civic. No sign of the bound and safely re-gagged man in the backseat. Even when Dean tossed a blanket over him, he didn't react. Sam orders an extra side of hashbrowns to go, bring them out with the check, please.

Glowering, Dean waits until she leaves before he says anything. "He tortured you, Sam."

"Dean." Sam leans over the table too harshly, remembers himself. "I knew what I was getting into. I said yes. Those - when I was hallucinating, that wasn't him. Jesus, just... what about Hecate? I mean, what's her deal? If Lucifer seems scared of her..."

"Cas."

"What about him?"

Dean fiddles with the salt and pepper shakers. "He. Uh. He said some stuff. About Heaven and Hell and pagan gods and I don't fucking know, okay? And now he won't fucking text me back." His phone is facedown on the table, off to the side along with his wallet, but Sam notes how Dean keeps glancing back at it, chewing his lip. "You think they got that dry-packaged gravy here, or the real thing?"

"Probably the freeze-dried shit. Just add water."

"Gross."

 

* * *

 

Brandy's fine. It's just been a hell of a weekend. The bong bubbles in her hands, her laptop playing some stupid comedy she's barely paying attention to. What the fuck is her life.

"Yeah. Shit. Sorry."

With a yelp, she tries to leap from the couch. Her bong freezes in the air, settles back on the coffee table with a gentle thump. Some short little dude in a bathrobe is smiling at her and she should be running, she should be calling someone right the fuck now - but his eyes are wide and blue, and a sweet warm buzz builds in her head, sizzles down her body, and now her bong is back in her hands and the bowl is reloaded and.... what?

"Thanks," he says. She knows him. Never seen his face in her life, but she knows him. He's awkward, rubbing at his chin with the sleeve of a bathrobe. "I. Uh. Just wanted to thank you? He needed that," he says, conversationally. "I just don't know what to do with him. Sorry. About. Yeah, you know. All of that crap you've had to deal with." He reaches out towards her forehead and then stops himself, shrugging back into his striped robe. "Anyways. Thanks for the human kindess and the burrito, blessings upon you and your progeny to the ninth generation and all that."

She won't remember any of this. But she's gonna have a great fucking day tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs* a bit of brandy pov at the end lmao. 
> 
> im looking forward but not excited about a big cross-state move so im just saiyan in case i leave this hanging for two months or whatever. thanks so much to the people who are into this; i'm just getting into fanfic again so it's gr8 to write things people actually read and comment and leave kudos on.


	9. Lucifer

Ruddy dawn light filtered through a haze of volcanic ash. Leftover gravy grown gelatinous on a plate. Pools of magma bubble and spread across bare rock. Oversoaked noodles and potato peels slimy on his hands. Ammonites swirling across the sea floor. Michael kneeling at a pulpit. Light casting off glaciers to paint the sky. Memories flit past, his mind trying and failing to pin one down. One wrinkled organ versus an archangel.

In the moist heat gathering under the blanket, Lucifer feels something. Distancing himself from the emotion, he sees it's the same thing that confused him once as he watched early life scurry round the planet. The fear of death wouldn't exist without the awareness of life. Yet life and death were a continuing cycle, intrinsic to each other. Creatures watched each other die all the time, but the first soul changed everything. Why did they fear death? It wasn't death they feared, his father had explained. It was the unknown. The zest for life, the desire to know, was what kept them going. Life grew and expanded and exploded over the earth, seeking to know all it could grasp, and Lucifer had tried to understand.

He can't remember the first soul. Hecate had been the one who discovered it, he knows that. A raincloud crackling, not with electricity but something else. Something new. It was from a fungi creature, maybe. A nautilus. A strain of bacteria. He doesn't know. This is fear. A film of saliva wets the cloth shoved in his mouth when he retches. Leather chafes at his cheek, slick with his sweat. Lucifer brings each part of his body to awareness. Arms aching. Heart thudding. Wool clings to his eyelashes. The stink of the dish-pit still clings to him, and just the thought of food sends his belly rumbling. Fear mounts, closing up the back of his throat, and the fact that he's feeling this can only mean that somewhere in this body is a soul.

No. Lucifer has a soul already. It was made for him, placed in a vessel for him. A vessel that now swings open the door of the Impala and rocks the car when he settles down.  
  
"- cause we're in public, Dean, Jesus." Sam is saying. "Besides, what about...."

"If some pagan wants to stop me from doing what's gotta be done-"

Some pagan. Surely, he can't mean Hecate.

"She sure shut you up before," Sam points out. They fall into silence for a while. "Let's just. Okay. We'll take him back to the motel, ask him some questions -"

"-and what, buy him a moped?"

"Shut up, Dean."

 

* * *

 

 

Between the dirty blinds on the window, Lucifer can make out the outline of a giant pink flamingo sign. So they were here. If he had just waited around last night the Winchesters could've come straight to him. Sam removes the gag from his mouth while Dean paces the room, tossing the pistol between his hands.

"I wasn't going to kill you, Sam," he says immediately. Sam should know that.

"Oh yeah? So you just came at me with a steak knife to do what, exactly?"

"My father only seems to intervene where you two are concerned."

"You scared the crap out of that girl."

"Her name is Brandy."

Dean rolls his eyes. He seizes the opposite chair, spins it around and sits with his arms crossed over the back, fingers twitchy on the pistol. "Yeah, what was up with that? What were you trying to do to her?"

"...Nothing?"

"Oh, yeah? Well, what about your other lady friend?"

"Lady friend," Lucifer says slowly. No, he wouldn't have killed Sam. Dean, on the other hand... "You mean Hecate? I'm shocked, Dean, really. I knew you weren't the brightest, but you've been in and out of her domain so many times -"

Dean holds up his hands, waving. "I know of her, okay. But what's some Greek goddess got to do with you? And God?"

"Some Greek goddess." The legends these humans come up with. "She's... like my father. Not nearly as great as my father, of course, but like him. She was the one who first discovered the power in souls. Would've kept it all for herself if we hadn't stepped in. I'm assuming she's worked out some kind of deal with God. Hence, all of the angels - gone."

"Wow," Sam chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "He sure likes to put down his own kids, huh?" Lucifer's been staring at Sam the whole time, but finally Sam raises his chin and looks back at him. It's all wrong, seeing him on this muddy earthly plane. Sam's face is tight and guarded and he can't see anything behind those eyes.

"I wish I could see your soul." It comes out unconsciously and he would regret it, but even the minute reaction on Sam's face is worth it. His face, Lucifer reminds himself. His true face.

Groaning, Dean rubs his eyes with his free hand. "Can I just shoot him already, Sam?"

"That would be nice, actually."

"Well don't make it easy on me, Lucy," Dean sneers. Then he jolts up and out of his chair, a tinny musical choir erupting from his coat. "What the - " Something on his phone makes his eyes widen. He sweeps up and out of the room, pointing a finger and glaring between the two of them like he's about to say something, but the ringtone pulls him out too soon.

"Must be Cas," Sam grunts.

Lucifer's stomach growls in the silence.

Sam stares incredulously, then gives a little half-smile. Nods his head towards a greasy box on the motel table. "I. Uh. There's some leftover potatoes."

"I don't need to eat, Sam, I'm an angel."

"Realllyy." He looks Lucifer up and down. If only Lucifer could see his soul. "How's that been working out for you so far?"

Lucifer sighs. Eating and defecating are the lowest among the horrors he's had to endure and he'd rather not mention it. "I... find it helpful to eat, sometimes, to mantain this body. But I'm still an angel. With or without my grace."

"Cas seems to think otherwise."

"Castiel."

"That's the thing." Moving towards the table, Sam leans his massive body back on his arms, crossing his legs. "I don't think he likes being called that anymore. Says it's an angel's name."

"His choice, I guess. I'm not like the other angels, Sam. No matter what my father says, I don't plan on slumming it with humanity to... learn a lesson, or appease another god."

"Yeah? So what was your plan?" Sam smirks. "Was washing dishes part of it?"

Intelligible shouting comes from beyond the room and saves him from coming up with an answer. Saves him from realizing that he doesn't have an answer. As they turn to look the door slams open and Dean is leaning against it, breathing heavily.

"That was Kevin. On Cas's phone. He says - he says Cas just ran off with Crowley. Left his phone behind. And there's a pack of dogs in the bunker. I don't even - I don't fucking know."

"Crowley?" Lucifer remembers him as an annoying little upstart. Good at closing in on deals, though. Strong ambition. Who knows how he got mixed up with Winchesters. Sam points at Lucifer. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Turns back to Dean.

"What the... dogs? Wait, he can barely drive, how-"

"I know!" Dean shouts. "Fucking idiot!"

"Castiel. And Crowley," Lucifer repeats.

They're both a pair of wide eyes, looking at Lucifer as if they've just remembered he's there. Dean cocks his head. "You still got that angel radio shit, right?"


	10. Castiel

If Linda Tran is dead, Crowley's dead.

If Linda Tran is alive, Crowley is dead anyways.

Cas is pressing too hard on the gas. Ease up. Don't brake, no need to brake. Just don't slam it, now, take it easy. For a moment he pictures Dean in the passenger seat. Speaking slow, occasionally putting his hands over Cas's. Deep, measured voice. Telling him what to do. 

"You're going to kill us both," Crowley snaps, gripping the coat-hanger above his window. The car swerves when he tries to look at Crowley. Both eyes on the road, Dean says. Not that Dean really follows that rule. Crowley closes his eyes. That's fear, Cas realizes with no small amount of shock.

One last dose. That's it. The ritual of purified blood never specified that it had to be from the same human. Am empty syringe tucked in the pouch of Cas's hoodie bounces against his stomach. Just to be prepared. Just in case. Focusing on the road, he realizes he's going seventy miles an hour. He gives up and hits the brake. Too hard. 

"You're going to get us pulled over. And what then? Any bright ideas, Castiel?" 

Cas simply frowns. They've been driving for three hours without incident. Surely he can manage another few. According to the Google, the warehouse is only six hours from the bunker. Maybe too convenient, but Cas is prepared. He's got a loudspeaker, a recording of an excorcism on a cassete, two demon bombs he managed to build from the Men of Letter's impressive arsenal, and one angel blade. It's one in the afternoon; he'll miss his volunteer shift, but this is more important. Belatedly he remembers his phone. It must be back in the dungeon but it doesn't matter. He can do this himself. No need for Dean, or even Sam. The issue of Linda Tran is one he can set right. To prove something to himself - no, to Dean. He isn't a baby in a trenchcoat. He doesn't need sixty flavors of bread, doesn't need his clothes picked out for him, doesn't need to be treated like a child. Dean seems to forget that he has seen eons, billions of humans being born and living and dying, and that sometimes, he can figure a thing or two out on his own.

_Yeah? How's that thinking for yourself thing been working out for you?_

Dean's voice in his head. 

As always.

Something is wrong with the car. Cas presses as hard as he can on the gas pedal, but the car has a mind of it's own. It sighs and slows to a stop as he just manages to coast to the side of the road. Momentarily he panics, and then he sees it. The gas gauge is empty. _Keep your eye on that, Cas. That there's her blood, okay? She won't go anywhere without it._

Right.

Okay, Dean.

"Bloody good job, Castiel." Crowley's all snark again. "Absolutely brilliant. Perfect plan, really. I sure hope dear Linda isn't-"

It feels good to slam a fist in Crowley's face. So he does it again. And again, until Crowley's nose and lips are wet with blood. "You seem to be in pain," he notes. "Just how close to human are you?"

"Nowhere as near as you."

That deserves another punch. 

"Hit a nerve, have we?" Crowley's laugh is ugly and smeared with blood. "I'd have thought you'd be happy. Isn't this what you wanted? I bet Dean likes it. Maybe now you can finally get an erection, after-"

Cas tears off his seatbelt and throws himself out of the car. He walks a good thirty feet down the road, this two-lane highway surrounded by fields before he sits down in the tangle of weeds and gravel on the side of the road. Looking across the fields, he sees the huddled forms of cows. There's bound to be a house, somewhere. A gas station. Anything. But he doesn't want to leave Crowley alone. Curling forward, he presses his cheeks to his knees. Tells himself he hasn't failed yet, over and over until it sounds like truth. 

The sun beats down as he sits. Tears off his hoodie. Tugging his shirt where it clings to his sweat, he stands up and heads backs to the car. He's got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im on [tumblr](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/) btw
> 
> i was considering not updating until it was finished but that sounds like a recipe for forgetting lmao. i'll be trying for weekly updates - but yeah, cross-country move coming up *shrugs*


	11. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all together now

The first angel Lucifer directs them to is currently possessing a tree. It's a nice tree, tall and spreading into the sky. Host to an array of bugs and squirrels and birds. Nothing to do but absorb light and release oxygen; Sam can understand the appeal of being a tree. Lucifer presses his face against the window almost wistfully. Almost. Dean just grunts and hits the gas, Lucifer craning his head back to watch it disappear into the horizon. He mutters something Sam can't hear, some angelic name or other.

"Try harder," Dean says. "Cas-ti-el, okay?"

With a loud exhale, Lucifer melts into a sprawling mess across the leather. "I know his name."

Sam's flicking through the internet. Looking out the window. Reality is too surreal for him right now. None of those stupid little centering devices are working, but hey. Research. Don't think about the devil in the backseat. News updates on a freak storm in Missouri, Hecate's little power-trip a dark cloud they escaped hours ago. He's bringing up whatever he can find on her, scanning and pinning key points of lore to the mental corkboard. Most of the Greek myths are ancient fanfiction, but there's a few things to stick up there, underline and highlight. She's one of the Titans. Likes dogs. Sam crosses the lines with the pack of dogs at the bunker. Crossroads. Death and birth. Lucifer said something about the first soul. He tries to unite the dusky woman in the backseat with the image his mind constructs. The yin to God's yang. Long known as a protector of children.

He glances towards the rearview mirror. That can't be one of God's children back there. Lucifer rears up in his mind, the grinning cartoon of his hallucinations complete with a pitchfork and red horns.Yet all he sees when he looks at Lucifer again is a malnourished man being used as a tool. At their mercy. Dean's hands are steady on the wheel. Full on-the-job mode, the unravelings coiled together into a point aimed at the mission. Find Cas, find Crowley. Good for Dean.

It's difficult to encompass and examine his memories of the cage. With Lucifer inside him, Sam was something new. Jimmy said comets, but it was more like being chained to a nuclear reaction. Michael and Lucifer, beyond their vessels, tearing each other apart at an atomic level. Lucifer's voice rattling his eardrums. Single-frame flashes of a red glare of desert, a volcanic eruption, a polar sea encased with ice. Snapshots from Lucifer's memory. Unrelenting pain. Nothing was physical in the cage, really, but in Sam's head his skin was constantly peeling from his muscles. There's been one or two drunken nights when Sam has been tempted to talk about Hell with Dean. Drag it all out in the open. Scrape out the mutual shit rotting in their heads. But Dean was a single soul in Hell, still human. Sam was something else entirely. Sam can sympathize with atoms during the big bang. Sam knows how the first amino acids felt, jolted into existence in a cataclysmic chemical reaction. Ecstasies of pain and power in a continuous IV drip.

None of it can be reconciled with the reeking man in the backseat. He's pointing out the window, mouth moving around words Sam's blocked out, and Dean signals for the next exit. 

The Impala pulls up to a dusty gas station, one of the pumps all blown out and wrapped in yellow caution tape. A neon yellow and red sign blinks a promise of coffee, and Sam can already taste the heat in his throat. He'll go out and get a cup, but Dean's swinging out of the car heading towards two figures blocking their encroachment to the pump. Castiel's red hoodie is wrapped around Crowley's wrists. Cas is frowning as a gas pump with a red can dangling from one hand, a length of chain in the other. Exhaustion in his limbs as he stares blandly at the black beast rolling up, halting.

Hard to focus on the present when it just keeps getting weirder.

The door slams shut and Dean's running forward, shouting. An unsteady breath ghosts over the shell of Sam's ear. He turns and sees Lucifer leaning forward, frowning. "I thought we blew up that vessel. Remember, Sam?"

"Uh. Yeah. I do."

"God?"

"Did the same thing for you, didn't he?"

"Huh." Lucifer leans back. Red lines encircle his wrists, too thin where they lay on his thighs. The black and white check on his kitchen pants are rubbed black at the knees. No shoes, just innocuous white ankle socks. Sam turns back around and watches the scene play out through the windshield, a television on mute. Dean thrashing and yelling, Cas indignant and bristling. Even Crowley looks taken aback. A teenager filling up a white Accord stares. Whips out her phone to snapchat the crazy dudes at the gas station. Sam's laugh sounds alien.

"What's so funny?" Lucifer is asking, genuinely curious.

"That," Sam gestures. "Wait. You - are you -"

"Why would I try to kill Castiel now?"

"Hah, well, I dunno. You did before?" No reply. Sam looks back again and he really, really shouldn't be doing that. "Where is Michael, anyways?"

Lucifer shakes his head, slowly.

"You killed him?"

"No. We.... parted ways." There's a finality in his tone. Enough to make Sam realize that he isn't having a conversation with the fucking Devil. Now that he's served his purpose, maybe they can.... just dump him off somewhere. Right here, another nameless little highway exit in Anywhere, USA. Two gas stations kitty-corner from each other, an Arby's, a motel. He watches Dean grope around Crowley's pants, whips out a phone. Cas looks abashed for a moment, then snatches the phone from Dean. They're something out of those foreign-language soap operas, barely contained and overly dramatic to the point where you don't need to know what they're saying to get the plot.

Shit, now Dean's herding them to the Impala. Crowley goes first, then Cas wedges himself in very, very carefully. Lucifer just slides back and makes room. Still outside, Dean's jaw grinds as he eyes the backseat. Gasoline has spilled around the container Cas has settled on his knees, the smell triggering memories of fire and brimstone. A thud sounds from the roof as Dean punches, just once, and then he's back in the driver's seat. Hands on the wheel. The Impala screeches as Dean steers back towards the highway, heading north.

"Alright," he grounds out. "I don't want - I want complete fucking silence. From everyone. Crowley, you say left, right, east, west. That's it. Till we find Ms. Tran."

Sam frowns. Tries to exchange a look with Cas, who seems more focused on holding the gas can. "Whoa, what? Kevin's mom is alive?"

"No, she isn't. She's fucking dead, Crowley's a liar, and Cas is a fucking idiot who's getting fucking played and heading straight into a trap," Dean says.

"How would I even know if she's alive, when I've been holed up in your sex dungeon for months?" 

"Not directions, Crowley!"

"Dean-" Insistent, stubborn squinting from the back seat.

"Shut up, Cas, we've been over this! I said -"

"Kevin Tran. Prophet, right?" Cas stares at Lucifer with pure maleficence and nods tightly. He's practically melded with the door, curling around the can in his lap.

"Where's our brother?" Lucifer looks blank, and Sam watches Cas's expression narrow as he assume the worst. "Dean. For the last time, why is Lucifer-"

"What did I fucking say?" Dean roars.

"No, Dean! You still haven't answered -"

"Cause we had to find your dumb ass before - before you got it killed!"

"I had a plan, Dean! If we go back to the car, there's-"

"What, assuming it hasn't been hot-wired already-

And they're off. So much for the silent game. Shouts bounce off the car's interior, deafening the sounds of the highway and the rumble of the Impala. Crowley joins the fun, Lucifer retreating to an avid observer. It's fine, nothing compared to the endless screeching in the cage. In the meantime Sam's got a smartphone, a broken brain, and Kevin is sending him pictures of dogs. Asking him if these are seriously Hellhounds. A large collie and a Chihuahua are currently curled up on Sam's bed. Cute, real cute.

 _if you need to feed them i think there's still some ground beef in the freezer_ , he sends.

**there's a wilco in lebanon just off the 20. i wanna drive one of these oldsmobiles**

_have fun_

**....is anyone gonna tell me wtf is going on?**

We're trying to find out whether or not your mom is alive. Your mom you're still in the process of grieving. We're ignoring you and lying to you because we don't know what the fuck else to do. You've been through a lot of shit and we're probably just gonna make it even worse.

_crowley lured cas into a trap. we've got em both. were good._

**wow. informative. so crowleys alive then???? when the hell do i get to kill him?????**

Sorry, kid. Closing out the messaging window, Sam brings up this living-with-PTSD blog he's been checking out lately.  Nah, too heavy. His thumb jumps from images of volcanoes to information on specific dog breeds to Greek mythology again. Trying to find something to hold on to, anything to distract him from the surreality of his fucking life.

 


	12. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sigh sigh sigh read the updated warning

Late afternoon gleams red off a lightning pole. In the twilight shadow of the burnt-out barn, Cas shakes streams of gasoline over Crowley's body. Smoke from the pyre still stings his eyes. Three emaciated, wasted bodies linger as a double-exposure fixed over Crowley's corpse. One of them had to be Linda, not that anyone could tell much of a difference between the rotted, maggot-eaten forms still chained up in the basement. According to Crowley, there were six demons stationed here. But the bodies they found were products of starvation, neglect, dehydration. The human body, Castiel knows, cannot survive a week a without water. Crowley has been in the dungeon for four months. Four months since the angels fell. Four months of lingering and languishing without food or water or hope. 

If any of them had thought to ask - if they'd hadn't been buried in their own misery and sickness - if they hadn't believed Crowley - 

The deck of the farmhouse lies in splinters. Cas's shoulders ache from ripping apart worn timbers, throwing himself into the swing of the axe. For the prisoners - for Linda - they built a pyre, but Crowley gets tossed into a ditch. His hands are slippery on the red plastic can. Before he can drop it Dean's taking it away and gesturing for Sam to drop a match. Flames lick at fine European wool. It's a sight that Cas has entertained many a time to quell the guilt and despair that threatened to flood him, but watching the burning corpse now he only feels empty. Cas looks away. 

_Couldn't even let her son have his revenge_ , Lucifer offers.

Every other telegraphed thought Lucifer has pitched he's ignored so far. This one he can't. Gritting his teeth, he releases a slap of grief through the channel between them. . 

_Selfish, brother._

As if Lucifer can talk.

 _I told you before. You're a lot like me._

Lucifer is still on his knees, hands bound behind his back. A depression in the grass beside him, where Crowley had been forced to kneel minutes before. Execution style, quick and clean. Dean had been ready with the Springfield, but Sam had jerked him back with a quirk of eyebrows. Let Cas slip his blade through Crowley's throat as if it was something he needed. The fallen handgun is still where Dean dropped it. Cas picks it up gingerly, turning it in his hand. These blocky machines still feel awkward in his grip. Lucifer is still when he presses the muzzle to the center of his forehead.

A voice emerges in the depths of his head, foreign yet distinctly female, words in an old language he cannot parse yet the intent is clear. The distant hoot of a owl sounds like punctuation. His finger leaves the trigger on command and he looks around. Barbed-wire fences line the horizon, rising and falling with foothills. The dirt road is a twilight-pink ribbon rolling away. A sea of grass and weeds, a few huddled trees. Of the six demons Crowley claimed were here, not a single one had surfaced. It was an uneasy drive down the dirt track. Nowhere to hide out here. They'd waited in the Impala for a minute waiting for an ambush, and then Sam and Dean had left the car, gun and knife drawn. No answer. Cas already knew the place was empty. The lone psychopomp curled under the porch steps was enough. Lucifer had tried to exchange a look, but Cas had simply stared forward and let Sam and Dean wonder. Even now it watches them, making a soft swishing sound in the grass. It slithers between them, and Lucifer and Cas both look down at the red-blotched scales. 

They shouldn't even be able to see reapers, fallen as they are. 

Hecate's reaper rattles its tail in a facsimile of a more dangerous species of snake. 

No one had commented when the gun jammed. When Dean dropped the gun, startled, as it flared red-hot in his hand. They already had two bodies to deal with. Cas had known, and Lucifer had known. Now they meet each other's eyes, and Lucifer looks strangely at Cas. An unbidden memory springs to mind. White light glinting off the tip of a needle. Naomi's firm grip. Lucifer's upper lip curls. The gun is loose in Cas's hand, muzzle in the dirt. 

A hand lands on Cas's shoulder. "Come on," is all Dean says. Sam jerks Lucifer to his feet, keeping him at an arms length. Black smoke drifts in the rearview, blending in with the evening sky.

* * *

They make it to the bunker early the next morning, stiff from a night spent in the car. Only Lucifer had actually slept. Every time Cas closed his eyes he saw the snake wriggling in the grass. Linda Tran's bright eyes. Sunken cheeks and exposed gums. He'd tried looking at the stars, only for them to shiver and streak and fall. Dean and Sam's uneven breaths let him know that they too were only pretending to sleep. 

Seems Kevin stayed up all night as well. He's drooling on a mess of papers in the war room. Dogs lift their heads as they file in. Sam scratches ears with weary indifference, dragging Lucifer to the dungeon for lack of a better idea. Exhaustion has killed any logical thought for now. Cas wants nothing more than to grab a bottle and lock himself in his room, but Dean's heading for the liquor shelf so instead he snatches some of Kevin's notes and takes them to the library. Dense scribbles strain his eyes. A few Enochian symbols leap out at him. No, he can't read this shit now. The pages slide off his lap as he stretches his legs. There's too much else to see if he closes his eyes, so instead he looks up at dark wooden beams.

The trickle of liquid into a glass breaks the silence. Dean shoves a glass in his hand, keeps the bottle to himself. 

"I get it, Cas," he says roughly. "You tried. But - there's always gonna be people you let down. People you can't save."

"Is that why we drink?" 

Dean laughs, scrubs his face with his wrist. "Just promise me, Cas. Tell me you won't go running off like that again." 

"I'm not a child," Cas says. It comes out more forcefully than he would have liked, but it shuts Dean up. For a minute, at least, while he takes two quick swigs, clears his throat.

"Look, man. We got enough. I got enough to deal with. I don't need anyone I - I don't need you adding to that."

Cas tips back his glass, holds it out for more. Dean is licking his lips, looking at him like he wants to say more. Something in Cas's face must stop him, though, because he shuts his mouth and fills the glass to the brim. They keep going, liquor softening the edges still sharp between them, until sleep finally wins.

* * *

Footsteps slamming down the hall. Cas and Dean rustle awake, looking out and up at Sam's towering form. His eyes are red and lined, coffee steaming in his hands.

"I had to tell him the truth," is all he says.

Kevin's got a duffle bag swung over his shoulder. He gives Dean and Cas a withering look, glances at his own scattered notes where they lie on the floor. "Some interesting stuff there," he says wryly. "Maybe you don't wanna know. Maybe it's just too much for you."

"Kevin-" Dean starts, rising from his chair. The bottle rolls off his lap. 

"Just shut the hell up, Dean."

Cas doesn't move, doesn't try to say anything. He gets it. 

"It's not safe for you, Kev-"

"What? Demons? Didn't you get the memo? Heaven, Hell, all of that crap. It's over. Hecate's got every demon on lockdown, right? How the fuck did you think my mom - my mom..." Kevin wavers, chokes up. "Look, I'm not staying in your fucked-up daycare anymore," he says with finality. Tromping up the stairs, Kevin slams the door of the bunker behind him. 

Sam shrugs. "He's got a ride, a credit card, and Jody's address."

"We can't just let him-"

"We can't keep him cooped up here all the time, Dean. He's not a child. And you gotta admit. We've been kind of ignoring him anyways."

"He needs to be protected." Dean's already up, grabbing his phone off a table. "I'm going after him."

"Protected from what, Dean? Demons? Hell... hell doesn't even exist anymore. Not as we knew it. Jesus. Didn't we notice? How the demonic radar's been, like, fucking silent these past four months? Shit." He gestures towards the papers on the ground. "Did you read any of that?" 

"...no," Dean and Cas say in awkward unision. 

"Yeah, well, I talked to Kevin. I guess one of us should've done that a long time ago." Sam sits down, spreading too-long legs on the leather armchair. He fiddles with his coffee mug. 

"What the hell, Sam," Dean says.

"I just. I think. If we're gonna try to figure this crap out, Lucifer should be here." Coffee spills from the mug when Sam tosses out his hands, but he doesn't notice. He's fixated on Cas. "Right? Castiel?"

* * *

"So, get this." Sam's spreading pages apart. The angel tablet is off to one side under Lucifer's curious stare. "This whole side - it's kind of weird, but it's like a divorce contract. We're talking custody, division of property assets, guardian ad litem, et cetera."

"What, some lawyer crap?"

"I thought this was about the creation of angels," Cas frowns.

"Yeah! It is. Well. It's all weird and metaphysical, but the best I can make out of it? Fucking divorce contract. I had to study tons of these... back in the day. Look. What makes archangels different from the other angels?" He glances between Cas and Lucifer like one them is about to raise their hand. A hangover pounds behind Cas's forehead, while Lucifer tilts his head. Sam sighs. "Seriously, guys? The five archangels? God's first children?" 

"Five archangels?" Cas asks. 

"Numerical translations are pretty clear, Cas."

"You've made some mistake." The needle, hovering over his eye. 

Dean groans. "Sam, whatever you're getting at-"

"Okay. Okay. So, God wasn't alone. In fact, it's kind of weird calling him God considering Hecate and the other primeval entities were on his own level. Now, the other angels were created after the battles for of the souls - but the first five? Yeah. Hecate's kinda your mom. She and God were, like, yin and yang, and their children shaped the world as we know it. And then. Mom and Dad split up, the kids pick a side, and the whole family goes to shit. This is referenced in lore all over the place. I think - what do you guys think?"

Clamps close in around Cas's skull. Pinpricks in his forehead. Too thick, the needle's too thick.

"Castiel," Lucifer says. "What do you remember of the early wars?"

The needle stabs. "I - I don't-" 

"It was one of us," Lucifer says slowly. "One of the archangels who first turned against her. Right after the discovery of the first soul. Let's see, there was me. Michael. Raphael. Gabriel. But we hadn't rebelled against our father yet, had we? I can't remember, Castiel. I can't even remember the first soul."

Cas falls out of his chair. A blinding light stretches behind his eyes, an endless screeching in his eardrums.

"Tell me, Castiel," Lucifer continues. "Who other than an archangel ever rebelled? I don't know. Jog my memory, brother."

_Remember us? Remember me?_ The old voice again. Castiel falls into the light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo this the part where i made some major changes to the original plan for this story so i've been sitting on this for a while but well, it was time to shit or get off the pot or flush it down the drain. this was also where i realized the great mistake of posting a wip fic. well! i am learning. comments are appreciated, even if you don't like it.


	13. Lucifer

Lucifer didn't realize he was speaking Enochian until Dean's fist crushes his cheekbone. Hunched like a giant chimpanzee, one arm wrapped around around Castiel and the other ready to strike again, Dean is bellowing ape-speak.

"I'm trying to speak to my brother," Lucifer says, trying to soothe the beast. "In case you haven't noticed, he seems a bit... distant right now."

"You put some kinda spell on him!" Castiel shudders under his arm, trying to curl into a ball. Sam is grabbing Dean's other arm. They won't shut up. Lucifer tunes out the humans, looks at his brother.

He'd held a sort of grudging respect for Castiel. Even the angels he swept down to Hell with him hadn't really been rebels. They were moths drawn to the Lightbringer, turning him into their new god. Out of all the lower angels, Castiel had always been rough around the edges. Each descending order of angel became more and more indistinct, names and identities smudging together. Yet Lucifer had always remembered Castiel's name.

Now he watches the change overtake Castiel as he stiffens, shoves Dean's arm away. Red-rimmed eyes meet Lucifer's for a moment before he turns and runs out of the dungeon. Sam and Dean follow like imprinted geese. Cold metal digs into his wrists when Lucifer tries to rise, keeping him down, but the doors are still open and he watches the small drama play. Castiel wincing and turning away, Dean moving in orbit, Sam hovering on the fringe. Only Sam bothers to glance back towards Lucifer. Frowning, he walks forward and slams the dungeon doors shut.

* * *

 

Lucifer sits in the dark for a long, long time. It makes no difference whether his eyes are open or closed. He must fall asleep at some point, because suddenly he's blinking around grit in his eyes and he hears shelves sliding on the floor, the jingling of keys. Castiel doesn't turn on the lights, only a pale beam of flashlight burning Lucifer's eyes as he removes the chains. Even free from the manacles Lucifer can barely stand. His stomach feels like it's been turned inside out, his limbs are boulders. Castiel watches him with detached interest, offering a plastic waterbottle. "Come," is all he says.

A few well-placed lamps illuminate their path through the hallways of the bunker. All is silent, but when Castiel leads him past the library Lucifer hears a snuffled snore. Peeking through the door, he sees Sam, head down on the table, forearms hidden under a mess of hair. One dog on his lap, another curled under the chair. They lift their heads, sniffing after the two angels.

"Don't." Castiel grabs his wrist.

An insectoid black machine catches Lucifer's eye in the garage. Valves and gears crawling over each other behind sightless glass eyes and tires that could be made out of an elephant's hide. The automobile dwarfs the tiny, two-wheeled device parked in the spires of its shadow. But Castiel draws him towards the small one, places a set of keys in his hands. "Sam gave this to me," he says oddly, scratching a stubbled chin with dirty nails. The creases beneath his eyes look darker under the strong lights of the garage. He's speaking English.

"Brother," Lucifer starts, but Castiel winces at the Enochian.

"No." He nods at the bike. "Come on. I'll show you how to ride it."

"Why?"

"I'm taking you into town."

A full moon barely lights the gravel road. The bike sputters and swerves between Lucifer's thighs. Warm air whooshes past his face, stinging his eyes, and he gets a mouthful of some flying insect. Castiel just shakes his head the first time he spins out and falls. If he rides fast enough he can outrun his body, but balance is tricky. Some control is still required. Castiel's hands are steady on his shoulders. He tucks right up behind Lucifer on the seat, pressed too close, his hands closing over Lucifer's to manage the gears, and then they're whisking away down the road. Half-shouted instructions steer Lucifer, his brother telling him where to go.

When he tries to remember Castiel the archangel, his mind draws blanks. But here, wrapped in the tan coat Castiel threw over his shoulders before they left the bunker, he wonders if Castiel was born first. Gabriel and Raphael rise in his mind, two fleeing sparks of lightning following him in an arc across the skies. He taught them both how to fly with Michael at his side.

Who taught him to fly? Did he and Castiel once race through the dimensions on Michael's heels? Or were he and Michael the two following Castiel's lead?

So very long ago.

They're whizzing past houses now, dipping to the side of the road to stay out of the path of cars. Automobiles still hold a horrifying fascination for Lucifer. In the night, against the bright headlights, he can barely make out their forms. They glide past lights and signs, stopping for no apparent reason when red lights reflect off a thick white line painted on the asphalt. On the left a thick-jowled man piloting a great blue truck scowls when he realizes Lucifer's stare. He bares his teeth in reply, and then Castiel presses his foot down again on the pedals, turning right. Finally they tremble to a stop before a squat brick building. Humans stand in a long line beneath the bright yellow gleam from a set of doors. Castiel grabs Lucifer's arm, leads him to the front of the line, up the steps, into an alcove. "Normally I come here on Saturdays," he says, and with no further explanation forthcoming, Lucifer looks back at the humans huddled like boulders. Despite the warm night, they wear thick coats. Stringy, greasy hair, shoulders curving towards each other. Shadows on their cheeks, hollow eyes.

They look quite a bit like Cas.

Not Castiel. Just Cas.

The stink of desperation and fear wafts from the crowd. Empty eyes catch Lucifer's, windows to barren souls. Only a glimpse before Castiel drags him inside, under bland fluorescent lights flickering off beige walls. A few bright signs pepper the walls, humans with clipboards standing around. Some woman shakes his hand, saying something that he doesn't even try to hear. Apathy clings to cracks in the linoleum floor, despair peels from the thin veneer on her desk.

Castiel has brought him to a monument of misery

After much handwashing, they put on vinyl gloves. Castiel ties a black apron around Lucifer's waist, places a styrofoam bowl of soup in his hands. He accepts it all, ignoring the scorch on his tongue. Wherever Castiel has brought him, whatever they're supposed to be doing here, it's fine. The joke's on Hecate after all. If Lucifer can't die, he can just float. So he stands with Castiel and ladles soup into a line of bowls. For the duration of three hours he stands there, only taking a single piss break. Even that act holds some revolting appeal when he momentarily envisions Hecate's face in the urinal, drowning in piss, but that is vulgar human humor. Meanwhile Castiel serves soup, runs pots back and forth, smiles and chats with people. He's familiar here. Appreciated. Yet the same people that clasp Castiel's shoulders give Lucifer wary looks. He doesn't bother adjusting his body language for their benefit. When the last pot is scraped clean it's time to wash. This part he's familiar with, at least. Waves of soapy water crest over the too-small sink, spilling. Castiel begins mopping even before he's set the last pot to dry.  
  
"Am I hired?" Lucifer asks. Castiel looks confused. "How much do they pay here?"

"This isn't a job," Castiel says. "There's no money."

"Then why are you here? Why did you bring me?"

"They helped me when I fell."

"Who? The humans here?"

"Yes. I was.... weak, and cold, and hungry. I was alone. One of the men you met tonight directed me here. They fed me and gave me a coat. Around so many other lost ones with nothing to their name, I realized I wasn't alone. In fact, I was luckier than any of them. I had the Winchesters to call."

"That doesn't explain why you waste your time here."

"I don't have much else to do with my time."

"I'd rather make money."

"You can do that," Castiel wheels the yellow bucket towards a mop sink. "But here you'll have free room and board. Even if you only serve a few nights a week. And if you don't want to stay, at least you know where this place is. If you ever need anything, they're here."

"Why would I need anything?"

"You," he says conversationally, "were sleeping on the streets. You were passed out in some human's bed when Sam and Dean found you. Your vessel is wasted and dirty. When Dean first told me... I was afraid of you. Now I see you, you aren't much different from the other people here."

The back door of the kitchen opens into a parking lot, barely lit by a single streetlight. A few huddled shapes surround a small bonfire. Low voices, hands extending over the flame, paper bags being passed around. Lucifer leans against the doorjamb and watches them. Castiel comes up and lightly touches his shoulder.

"Sam and Dean would keep you prisoner. But. It seems Hecate has taken an... active interest in you." With a sudden snort, Castiel wrinkles his nose. He wears human expressions so naturally. "Here, they like to say God has a plan for everyone. Maybe you can find it."

"I'm a prisoner no matter where I go, Castiel."

"No. You just don't know what do with freedom."

"You call this freedom?"

Castiel sighs. "Do either of us really know what freedom means? Were we ever free as angels? Would we even be able to remember? Looking at the tablet, hearing about our mother... I saw things. I felt things. Half-formed images I could barely comprehend. I know that I betrayed our mother. I see your wings emerging from volcanic craters. But there's so much we don't know. Our minds have always been prisoners. At least here we can think freely. In fact, these past four months hold some of my clearest memories." Nodding towards the moped where it leans on a kickstand, Castiel has half a smile on his face. "Take care of that bike. There's a credit card in the pocket of your coat. I'm sure you won't crash and die. Something tells me Hecate won't let that happen." He shoves past Lucifer, walking out into the lot.

Something in Lucifer wants to call after him, but he stops himself. Castiel doesn't look back, only pausing once under the streetlight. In that instant, illuminated by a cone of white light, he almost looks like Michael.

* * *

 

The town Castiel has left him in is a small and dusty grid. The moped wobbles down wide and placid streets, bumping over potholes. He finds a small pyramid of rocks, a monument to the geographical center of the United States where people pose for photographs. In the cooler section of a food mart he finds a new canned drink he enjoys. The shelter has a weekly menu of soups, but the corn chowder is the best. Luther, the cook, is tall and thickset and deep-voiced. He lets Lucifer - no, Luke - ride with him to the delivery entrance of the grocery store, where they load the back of the truck with cardboard boxes full of old and damaged produce. The people believe he was addicted to narcotics until Cassidy, his older brother, brought him here. He sits in group sessions on metal folding chairs and listens to humans reminisce about the rush of freedom pumping in their veins. He sleeps on a top bunk over a man who weeps in his sleep.

He stays. Where else would he go? What else would he do? Even when he rides the moped around town, no spark of desire motivates him to do anything but eventually return. It isn't until Castiel shows up in the kitchen again that he realizes he's been here for a week already.

"Do you like it?" Castiel asks him when they're done, standing out in the parking lot again.

"No."

"You haven't even tried to leave."

"Are you watching me?"

"Sam is. There's a tracking device on that moped, you know. Two separate ones, in case I found one and removed it. They didn't trust me, either."

"Oh," is all he can think to say. So he's still being watched. So what? This life he's living isn't his own. If Lucifer had his way, he'd be dead. But. He doesn't get his way. So he nods through the support group meetings, stirs the pots of soup, sweeps the floors, makes bland conversation. There's no bars on this cage to rattle. No power to rail against. No cosmic forces controlling him. Sometimes he sees another fallen angel in the soup line. He recognizes them mostly by the way they jolt and stare at him, most averting their eyes. The word must be spreading, because more and more show up every week. They come to gawk and mock, but in the end they're still too scared of him to speak. He ignores them. After all, as the one serving the soup, he's still in the position of power. Maybe he scoops a little less for the angels, shaking any chunks of meat out of the ladle. Gadreel actually drops his bowl and sprints out of the dining room when he sees Lucifer. While every head turns to stare after the running man, Lucifer carefully hides his chuckle.

His amusement is short-lived when Gadreel jumps him outside the shelter, slamming him into the ground. Lucifer claws and spits, but the fight is cut short when Luther comes storming out of the kitchen, wrapping both arms around Gadreel and hauling him bodily away. He's roaring for someone to call the police. Gadreel struggles, keening, and Lucifer bares his bloody teeth. It's over in seconds, but the experience is enough to unsettle him. Gadreel won't be the only former angel looking for revenge.

He can't stay here anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well ok im exhausted after moving but maybe now i can finish this hmmm well have some barely there plot and brotherly bondingz 4 now  
> [also hi im on tumblr i need more fandom peepz](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/)


	14. Sam

To their respective credit, Dean doesn't break any lamps and Cas doesn't run away once the news breaks. Cas just peers at the blinking dots on Sam's phone and nods, like he isn't surprised at all that they put tracking devices on his moped. Dean's three beers deep into posting photos of former Hellhounds on Craigslist. "One out, six to go," he grunts. "Less denizens of Hell in here the better."

"I'll keep an eye on the police scanners," Sam volunteers. The GPS device is fixed at the shelter for now. Cas scratches doggy heads and nods distantly, wanders into the kitchen. Crinkling sounds as he opens a package of bread. 

"He'll be fine," Cas calls. Sam follows his voice, watches Cas lay out slices of bread straight on the counter.

"You sure about that?"

"I remembered him," Cas says simply. He scrapes peanut butter on thinly, goes thick with the jelly. Stacking three sandwiches on a paper plate, he zips past Sam. And yup, there he goes, locking himself back into his room. After the archangel freakout it had been hell trying to keep Dean from axing down the door, but now Dean just scowls and yells at dogs. Maybe Dean gets that older-brother responsibility, maybe he's just past giving a shit. 

There isn't even a question of Cas coming on hunts anymore. Ghosts and demons are a done deal thanks to Hecate sealing up the Underworld, but there's still monsters out there. Dean's internet searches get wilder and wilder until Sam literally has to talk him down from a twelve hour drive for what just sounds like a mutant alligator. Cas might help with research, but they've gone two steps back from the line of trust. He's spending more time volunteering at the homeless shelter, looking after the dogs.

No one's trying hard enough to adopt out the Hellhounds. Honestly, Crowley trained them well. Whatever Hecate's done couldn't erase who-knows-how-many years of training. The collie likes to go on runs with Sam, and Growley the obese Rottweiler has taken the role of alpha dog, shepherding the others around. Dean complains and swears he's gonna take them all off to a shelter, but never really gets around to doing it. Can't take them in the Impala, after all. Sam's been scouting out some of the Craigslist replies. They don't even know the names of any of the dogs aside from Growley and Juliet the collie, so it's kind of awkward when he finds someone who actually seems responsible and legit. Anyways, Dean's the only one who's even bothered by the dogs. Juliet's a pretty a good running partner.

Weeks pass. On Sam's phone the blinker travels all over Google maps while the Impala rolls across state lines. Having Lucifer gone is a relief, but not having him around spins a thread of anxiety. But the police reports say nothing and the moped returns to the same spot every night. Sam opens the app while he's eating breakfast, right after he turns off his morning alarms, when he's sitting passenger side, researching cases, when he's waiting for dinner. Dean doesn't comment on his obsession. As if Dean isn't checking his texts every ten minutes. As if Dean doesn't suddenly find private missions on the rare occasions Cas is alert and in the bunker at the same time as Dean. 

Sam's still trying to work on the fallen angel database. There's really no way to track all of them, Cas's angel radio is waning, but whatever archangel memories Cas recovered help a bit. Sam shows him the support group forums for families dealing with mental illness, missing person ads, a weird-news story about a man who swears his cat is telepathic. A renewed sense of responsibility towards his brethren gives Cas purpose. No one ever goes in Cas's room, but one day when Sam's trying to round up all the dogs a hound noses the crack open and Sam gets a glimpse of a two maps - one of the United States, one of the world - bristling with pushpins and post-it notes. They're concentrated in the center of the USA map. Sam glances carefully around, steps inside like he's walking on broken glass. Dates, names, distances. 

Angels are migrating towards Kansas. Almost like Cas is gathering them together.

"There's a family of psychics in Florida," Cas announces one morning. "I believe they're the remnants of the twenty-third garrison of malakh. Unless... it could've be a seraph possessing an entire family at once. I'd like to, ah. 

Check it out. I'm leaving today."

"You're going to Florida? Dude." Dean quirks his eyebrows at Sam. "Swamp monster."

"You mean the alligator."

"Oh come on, Sam! There's been two more reports. Croikey, mate, I ain't never seen no-:

:Wow. Shut up. That wasn't even - that was like Crowley on helium. Also? Australia has crocodiles. Not alligators."

"Aw, Sam-"

"You wanna play Crocodile Dundee-"

"Who wouldn't?" 

"Swamp monster?" Cas asks tentatively.

"Um. Yeah." Dean brushes toast crumbs off his lips, giving Cas a sideways glance. "Sam's not interested. But hey, you're going to Florida anyways, might as well. Give it a look."

"You want to accompany me."

"I mean. It'd make sense if we ride together. I'm not tryna. You know, I'm just -"

"No, Dean, that would be fine. To tell you the truth, I'm not comfortable with driving that far myself." 

"Great. Okay." Wide-eyed, Dean pushes the remains of his breakfast around. Cas hesitates, uncomfortable, then nods brusquely. Goes off to pack a bag. So that's some kind of progress. Sam very carefully does not smirk. 

Dean points at him. "You."

"Dogs, Lucifer. I got this."

"Course you do."

Right, that's a shitshow waiting to happen. At least Sam will be well out of the blast radius. He's going to have to be careful about answering his phone. Not that he would dare to call either of them, but he's fully expecting furious ranting from Dean and terse voicemails from Cas and then he'll probably have to drive all the way to Florida when one of them throws the other out of the car. Help hide the body. Whatever. Maybe this could be good for them. Sam's got a stubbornly innocent traveling dot on his phone and a pack of dogs to play with, he's good.

After two days of blessed radio silence, Dean sends him a photo of a newspaper clipping. The image is already blurry and indistinct, but there's some shape there the same color of the dripping Spanish moss. The tree is bowing under its weight. 

It's very, very big. 

It is definitely not an alligator. 

**Might be here for a few more days** , Dean sends. **You good?**

Sam is totally dandy. Just to make sure, he opens the GPS app again. The moped's traveling, and - is it? No, it can't be. Heading straight for the bunker. 

Fuck. 

It's really happening. Really, really happening. Sam waits until it stops before the door before he opens it. Lucifer looks suprised to even be there. In the pale twilight he looks washed out, but better and fuller than before. Wrapped in a coat that looks like one of Castiel's, he's alert and healthy. After simultaneous double takes, Lucifer glares at Sam accusingly. "Where's Castiel?" 

"He and Dean are, uh. Out."

"Oh." 

"Do you.... do you need something?"

"Not from you. I came to see Castiel."

"Okay." Barking dogs run up the steps behind Sam. Still on the moped, Lucifer lets them sniff his ankles. "So. Do you wanna. I can call him for you?"

"Call him? You mean on the phone."

"Yep. That's. That's how we call people."

"Castiel is not a person," Lucifer says, fixing Sam with a dead-eyed stare. "But, I suppose, you can do that. Call him. Tell him I'm waiting for him." Swinging a leg over, Lucifer gets up and leans the moped against the entrance to the bunker. He looks at Sam expectantly, and Sam realizes he's blocking the door. Yeah, okay. Don't let the Devil in, Sammy! 

"What do you even want?" Sam asks. "You don't have a message I can give him? Anything?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand the issues of archangels," Lucifer says loftily. "I'll just wait outside, then." 

Sam's phone is downstairs on the war room table. He sighs and steps aside, letting Lucifer grab the door. A stream of dogs follow him down the stairs. Cas doesn't answer his phone. That's to be expected, sometimes. But Dean doesn't pick up either. That doesn't make sense. He texted barely twenty minutes ago. Sam doesn't bother leaving voicemails. Lucifer just sighs. "Let me guess. Your phones don't work."

"They're working," Sam snaps. He looks at the picture Dean sent him. Lucifer tilts his head, quizzically. "Tell you what. What do you know about swamp monsters?"

"I know a great deal about every creature that has ever walked the planet."

"Yeah, I bet you do."

"Is Castiel in trouble?"

"He might be. I mean. We should wait and see if they call back. Maybe he and Dean are just... doing their thing, I dunno. But. They could be in trouble. Anyways. For now? We research."

* * *

They've made a mess of the library. Lucifer carelessly purusing texts, snorting and flipping them to the floor if he disagrees with a single line. The thing is, whatever monster they're looking for hasn't killed any humans yet. But it's ripping apart panthers and manatees with ease, and going after endangered species is fucked up enough. But that also means they don't have any idea of its specific methods or what it's after. It's just big and hungry and possibly reptilian, and it's been sighted all over the Everglades. A research team is already down there trying to capture the thing, but only a few wildlife cameras have gotten a glimpse at it. The cryptozoologists are stoked about it, and yep, there we go, the Department of Fish and WIldlife sent two men to scare away reporters. Dean and Cas at work.

Dean and Cas haven't called back. It's getting late.

"The Men of Letters have little literature on the underworld serpents," Lucifer says, tossing another book to the ground. 

"Can you try stacking them? On the table? There's an order here." 

Lucifer ignores him. "It could be that Hecate's takeover didn't go quite that smoothly. She's always had an affinity towards serpents. But. Nehebkau was always... difficult."

"Nehebkau? Wait... that's some primeval Egyptian serpent, right? Wasn't he bound to Ra?"

"God of light," Lucifer smirks. 

"That was you?"

"I don't know." Lucifer shrugs. "You humans have a lot of myths. When I was locked away, I assumed they just tossed him in Purgatory. I looked after him." Lucifer sounds almost sad.

"Was he like... your pet?"

"Better than your dogs."

"Dude, I'm pretty sure these used to be your dogs." 

The little yellow dog rears up on its hind legs, pawing at Lucifer's pant leg. He looks down bemusedly. All of the dogs have taken a liking to him, it seems. It'd be funny if it were anyone else. Lucifer holds out a careful hand, and the dog bounces happily, tongue lolling. "I suppose so," Lucifer says almost too softly to hear. 

Sam clears his throat. "So. You think it's this Nehebkau?"

"Could be anything," Lucifer says derisively, and turns away. 

Right, okay. Sam just sighs and fires up the Google.


	15. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> with apologies to florida.

Sopchoppy, Florida is submerged in a muggy haze. It's hurricane season, but so far the weather has been no worse than a sweaty blanket. No matter how many times Cas wipes his forehead it's still damp. The Department of Fish and Game uniform is short-sleeved, fabric thick enough to not cling to his skin, but the rubber waders he's wearing are Sam's. Dean adjusted the straps but they're still too big and bunch the crotch of his khaki pants.

But now isn't the time to focus on the discomfort of his clothing. To his left a mangrove branch thwacks Dean in the face, and the abrupt sound against the drip-drip and insect chatter of the swamp discomfits him.

Not that they're the only ones disturbing the bayou. On the state park roads they passed flashlight beams reflecting off white cypress bark, a few pickup trucks. They weren't able to dissuade everyone from their own investigations. Last reported sighting of the what the media has dubbed the Tate's Hellbeast was only ten hours ago. The real Department of Fish and Game is probably out here already. At the distant crack of gunfire Cas holds himself from jumping, but when Dean touches his shoulder he jolts again, rocking the boat.

"Maybe we should be making noise," Dean whispers. " 'fore some crazy redneck shoot us."

Cas's silence is answer enough for Dean.

"You think it's even around? With all these people out? Coulda booked it on west by now."

Breathing slowly through his teeth, Cas closes his eyes and wills Dean to shut up. He digs his pole deeper into the black water, struggling for traction in the mud. The procession of their little rented craft is awkward, and several times Cas has to step out of the boat drag it after them.

"I'm just saying, you're kind of freaking me out about this-"

The boat rocks again when Cas whips around and grabs Dean's knuckles where they're wrapped around his pole. In the jungle shadow he can't tell Dean's face, but the stiffening of the shoulders is unmistakeable. Cas deflates. Dean's probably right. This swamp monster was supposed to be Dean's thing anyways. There's no reason for him to be so tense. To hold a grudge against Dean right now. Dean was excited about this until Cas's personal stress got in the way.

Just the memory of Febreze and air-conditioned air in that house chills his skin. Four figures all with different bodies, eyes, vocal cords, but somehow all bearing Yerachmiel's voice. Dean had stood aside during that awful encounter, and even now he's tagging behind Cas. Trying to let Cas lead the way. Trying not to hover. Dean is just doing his best.

"I don't want to turn back," Cas says, but it comes out harsher than he intended. Immediately he wants to swallow the words back, but something has snapped. Cas shivers. He's just freaked out by Yerachmiel. No one's watching him from the saw ferns, no one's hiding in a cypress tree ready to drop on his head. But Cas hasn't been able to shake the feeling. Paranoia rises with every ripple of water, every time he accidentally splashes with his pole.

"Cas," Dean breathes, but he's looking over Cas's shoulder.

There's a deep, deep V in the water, the wake of something barely submerged.

It heard Cas speak. It's coming for him.

Frozen, Cas watches the wake move faster and faster, a rounded shape just barely breaking the surface. Dean is poling desperately, shouting at Cas, but he can't move. When it thuds into the canoe Cas falls into the water without a struggle. Faintly he hears Dean, screaming and splashing. Too loud. Humans are so loud. Bubbles escape from his mouth, and something rubbery and slimy glides past his body, enveloping him in a moist embrace. The terror gives way to some ancient feeling of familiarity, of safety, of peace. Cas inhales deeply, the warm waters flooding his lungs, and reaches a hand out to wrap around a single bony tooth. His fingers barely fit around.

In a sudden splash the moment ends. Cas blinks against wet hair plastered over his eyes. Dean's pole is caught in the shoulder-strap of his waders and he grunts, hauling Cas up and towards him. When Cas is close enough he leans out from his perch in a mangrove tree, wrapping his arms Cas's waist too tightly. Trembling, Cas vomits up water and weeds. Dean says his name in a choked sob. "Cas, Cas, Cas, please. Come on, buddy. Talk to me."

"Dean?" The name is familiar. Safe. Peaceful. "Dean," he says again, trying to expel the memory of whatever happened down there. "Dean, he's gone."

"Yeah. Yeah."

"I didn't-" Another surge of water. He's dribbling in the space between them, soaking Dean's shirt. "I didn't see it, did you-"

"No. I dunno. It's okay. Jesus, Cas."

"My phone's ruined," he says numbly, and Dean just buries his face in Cas's neck and laughs.

"Left mine in the car," Dean chokes. "We're good. We're good. I got you."

* * *

They're parked before the motel room door when Cas wakes with a light touch on his wrist. He must've fallen asleep as soon as they got to the Impala. There's a meaty smell emanating from two Taco Bell bags perched on the seat between them. Dean looks guilty, drawing his hand back. "Gonna get cold," he offers, nodding towards the food.

"How long..."

"Dunno. We've been parked here for like, ten minutes." Reaching forward, Dean grabs something out of Cas's hair. A muddy fern leaf nearly a foot long. "I'm totally making you clean this all up. Tomorrow," he amends. "Food. Sleep. Now."

There's nachos, two burritos, a Mexican pizza, and three different colored varieties of hot sauce. Cas fumbles with foil packets, spilling sauce on the Formica table. Dean's licking his lips like he wants to say something. "What?"

"That.... swamp monster. Thing. You thought it was after you."

"Did I say that?"

"Yeah. Right before it hit us, you said it was coming for you. You. It was like."

"It knew me," Cas says softly. "It knew I was an angel. Even before... I felt like something was watching me. Following me. That if I said a word, it recognize me."

"I thought you were just acting weird. After. I dunno. Ever since Yero-yera-"

"Yerachmiel." Cas shakes his head. "It was calling to me, Dean. When I fell into the water, it wasn't trying to hurt me. It was... happy. I don't think it knew it could've drowned me, Dean. For all it knew I was still an angel. I was afraid, but the moment I hit the water, the moment I felt it..."

"You touched it."

Cas makes a circle with his fingers, widening the distance between his index and thumb until it feels right. "One tooth."

"Holy shit."

"I don't know what it is, Dean. I wish I had some idea, but."

"Yeah, yeah. You don't have all of our Heaven memories."

"Perhaps this could trigger something." The burrito is limp in his hands. Cas takes a bite without tasting. "We could go back and speak to Yerachmiel tomorrow. Well. If she doesn't slam the door in my face again."

"Tomorrow," Dean says, but he sounds dubious. "Yeah, okay. Let's just get to bed."

Dean falls asleep quickly, but after his nap in the car Cas isn't quite as exhausted. Rolling over, he traces Dean's sleeping form where the red light of the vacancy sign filters through dingy curtains. When he closes his eyes he sees Yerachmiel, how neatly she occupied each member of the family. Separate but joined, almost as if she was still a member of the host. Uniting them. Feeding off their love for each other, the traces of her possession only binding them closer. And he remembers the cold look in four pairs of eyes. The scornful pity. In a palm-lined suburb of Tallahassee Yerachmiel found a new family. Cas couldn't blame her if she didn't have a fuck left to give for her old one. What shook to him the core, what's keeping him awake now, is that she put a name to the hollow space in Cas's head. Loneliness. He thought he could fill it if he tracked down the other angels. The discovery that he was once an archangel had filled him with a sense of duty - pride - responsibility. Towards his family. And he ignored the dark corners of his mind that told him that the other angels hadn't been his family in a very, very long time. Truth be told, ever since he went on a special mission to Hell. Ever since he rebuilt the body of Dean Winchester. Ever since he rebelled against the Mother.

He, Sam and Dean. They were supposed to be a family.

Sam put tracking devices on his moped. Dean won't get off his back for a second. For twelve hours he sat with Dean in a car and they barely fucking talked, loud music and NPR filling the silence between them.

Then again. Cas is the one locking himself in his room. Cas never told them where he went. Cas has barely been present. There was Sam's sickness to deal with, Kevin's depression, Dean's frustration. Crowley in the dungeon. All he wanted to do was escape. In doing so, he isolated himself. Maybe, just maybe. If he had bothered to talk to Sam or Dean ever, they wouldn't have felt the need for a tracking device. Maybe if Dean could've fucking relaxed and not hovered over him like an anxious mother hen he wouldn't have felt the need to escape so much. Maybe if they hadn't been so wrapped up their own shit they could've reached Linda in time.

Too many maybes and ifs.

Everyone's at fault. Everyone fucked up. Something has to change but the first step isn't something he's willing to make. There's only six feet between him and Dean but it's so, so much. Cas is alone in the empty space of the motel bed. Some scared animal inside him wants to close the distance. Just go lay down on the bed next to Dean. Feel his weight on the mattress, feel the heat from his body. Take the step. Instead Cas rolls over again so he won't have to look at him anymore.

* * *

The alarm clock says it's already past noon. Cas nearly falls out of bed and hears a soft chuckle behind him. Newspapers are scattered all over the motel tabletop. Dean's chewing on the end of his pen, scanning the papers. Cas pulls himself up and walks over.

"Your lazy ass was supposed to clean swamp-gunk outta my car," Dean says pleasantly. "Nah, I already did it. You owe me."

Cas looks at the front page of the Wakulla News. The photo purportedly shows the Tate's Hellbeast, but it's too grey and unfocused to make out much. There's a drooping tail, an indistinct head. Cas can't see the teeth, but what could be a clawed hand is gripping a tree branch. Dean snaps a photo on his camera. "Running around like chickens without heads," he scoffs, gesturing to the articles. "And there's a hundred drunk rednecks fucking up all the reports. Cas, you might be the best lead we got here." A stricken expression crosses his face. "I don't mean-"

"I'd make good bait."

"No. Hell no, Cas."

"Dean. It hasn't killed any humans."

"Not yet."

"What makes you think it's something that needs to be killed?"

"Because it's a fucking monster, Cas. And if we don't? Someone else is gonna find it. All these poachers and hunters, fucking federal government, everybody's looking for this asshole. I get it if you have some kinda connection to it... and yeah, okay, it scares the shit out of me. It makes me wanna find this fucking thing. Look." Dean flattens his hands on the newspapers. "Cas, I know we had this fucking talk and I'm really, really not trying to babysit you here. But that thing? The way it swept you down? I can't... I can't watch that again. I'm sorry, but there it fucking is." The chair squeaks on linoleum when he rises to his feet. Pulling out his phone, Dean hands it to Cas. "So here's the deal. Most recent sighting's down in Apachiloco or wherever. So. Reporters? Fish and Game again? Feds? I don't think we can pull off park rangers, there's too many already involved. You check the feeds online while I drive. Mmkay?" Still groggy from sleep, Cas runs a hand through his hair and tries to process. Dean looks down abruptly. "Yeah. How about I go get us some, uh, lunch first. Take a shower, man, you got literal swamp-ass."

The next day they get a lot of surly glares and raised shotguns. Dogs lunge from the ends of their chains and rickety shacks rattle with the force of doors slamming. Everyone thinks they're gonna get the Tates Hellbeast first. It's turned into some kind of contest between gator-hunters, and there's been enough questioners and truth-seekers combing the area. The thing came up from the Gulf, chomped through the Everglades, and while the state of Florida will be damned if it crosses state lines everyone's too obsessed with claiming the notoriety for themselves to be of any help.

"Must be some kind of cash prize for this fucking thing," Dean hollers over the motor of their rented boat. It was a bit of a struggle getting Dean on the water again, but they hit a compromise. Cas just bit his lip rather than point out that the roar of the engine defeats the entire purpose, but according to Dean they're just interviewing today. Get all the information first, know exactly what they're up against. Cas doesn't think they're 'up against' anything, but he keeps that to himself. When they're finished checking on swamp shacks they hit the road again and head towards Apalachicola proper. After all day on the water, they're soaked and starved, not even bothering to find a room before heading a diner. Cas orders the gator burger out of sheer curiosity and because Dean is obviously curious but too apprehensive to actually order it.

"Lake Wimico," Dean reads over a burger, scoffing at the map. "Dude. The fucking names here." He glances at Cas's plate, chewing his lip. Cas lifts his half-eaten burger and offers it. Dean meets his eyes for a second before taking a bite. "Tastes like chicken."

"Gamier."

"Like if you crossed a catfish with a chicken." He shakes his head. "Man, giant reptiles are the last fucking thing I wanna think about right now."

"Really? I think they're the only thing we should be thinking about right now." Dean masks his cringe well, but Cas is used to seeing through that.

"Yeah," Dean says, pushing a fry through his ketchup.

* * *

Dean's still antsy when they make it to a motel room. They power through a six-pack too quickly in front of the local news channel and then Dean starts rooting for his duffel for the bottle of whiskey Cas knows is in there. Cas swallows the last of his beer and tells Dean to wait.

"Huh?" Dean peeks over his shoulder.

"Dean...." Cas draws up on liquid courage. "You need to know. I fully intend to draw the beast out again. With or without your- your _permission_ ," he snaps. "I understand, Dean, I do. But. You need to understand."

"Understand what?"

"I know this creature. I-"

"You could've fucking died last night!" Dean finds the bottle and rears up. "Look. I'm gonna get Sam on the research, okay? Like you fucking said. This monster isn't killing people or anything, we're not on a fucking time limit here! We'll find it, okay? Maybe today was a bust. So what. We got time. We don't - we don't need any suicide missions."

"Suicide missions?"

"Cas-"

"Dean." Getting up from the bed, Cas makes his way to Dean until they're face to face. "This isn't a suicide mission."

"Are you fucking sure? Cause the last time you actually fucking talked to me, you said you thought you might kill yourself!"

Suddenly Cas remembers Fred Jones. Swallowing, he looks into Dean's eyes and sees the consuming fear. The fear that's been there for a while, but he wasn't looking. He was too busy being angry. Self-centered. Pieces of the puzzle are sliding into place, but the thing is Cas has always known the final image. His hand finds the back of Dean's neck all on its own. He's only trying to press his face into Dean's neck, the same way Dean did last night, but his lips mouth the edges of Dean's collarbone beneath his black T-shirt. With a strangled sound Dean grabs him, runs a hand through his hair, holds him so close his snot wets the top of Cas's ear.

"I just - I need you to -"

It's too easy to silence Dean with his own mouth. Dean gasps, stumbles back. Crumples against the wall. But Cas is following him. Showing him. Teaching him. Taking control. Dean needs to know that Cas can take control, that he can be trusted. That he knows what he's doing. That he wants to live.

They go too fast. Later, when Cas looks back on this night, he will marvel. It's contradictory. Too easy to drag his hand down the zipper of Dean's jeans, too hard to actually wait a fucking second and look him in the eye and ask, is this okay? Are we okay?

Yeah, no, they're not okay. But for ten minutes, wedged between filthy carpet and a stained beige wall, they're soaring. Tears spring from the corner of Dean's eyes when he comes. He's fisting Cas's shirt in his hands, pants bunched around his knees, and he's the most precious thing Cas has seen. "You trust me," Cas whispers into his chest. It's not question but Dean nods furiously, eyes closed. For a moment Cas hates himself. Of all the things to protect Dean from, his own stupid self is number one on the list. Cas isn't right, he's unstable and furious and he just scared the shit out of Dean again last night. But Dean is licking into his mouth, beautiful sounds babbling from his throat, and Cas just. Takes and takes and takes.

After, they take separate showers. They lie down in separate beds. Cas ignores Dean's locked jaw and violent gestures when he tears back the bedspread.

It isn't until Dean turns off the light that he realizes how stupid he's still being. So he closes the distance. He takes the step. The moment he slides into Dean's bed Dean exhales softly, and the quiet sound wrecks Cas. When Dean's phone rings he kisses the mumble from Dean's lips, keeps him down. It can wait till tomorrow morning, when his elbow will be cramped and they'll be glued together with sweat and the whole room will reek. For now Cas licks the salt from the back of Dean's neck, lets the taste fill all of the empty space inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muh deesteels


	16. Lucifer

Sam cradles words between his big hands, drawing circles around questions. When Lucifer replies his fingers do this little squeezing motion, like he's holding onto the answer and rifling through the words. Periodically he stops to smile down at a dog, murmuring something soft. Or he runs a hand through his hair, keeping chestnut strands out of his eyes. But he never breaks focus as Lucifer tells him of the days of the primordial soup, when dark and light were one and creation was just beginning and Lucifer found a beautiful beast swimming in the deep. 

"But that's crazy," Sam says. "I mean, the oldest fossils of prokaryotic life we've even found are three and a half billion years old! You're talking, what? Six billion years ago? No no no, I get it, I get it. Sorry. I'm just. Whoa." He shakes his head, tossing up his hands. "Just. All of this. I can't even understand half the crap you talk about."

"But you of all people should understand." Lucifer says, slightly annoyed. Any other human would have a hard time comprehending Lucifer's words, but not Sam. Inside of Sam's head is enough space for all that Lucifer is. The more he gazes at Sam the more Sam's own discomfort grows. A former Hellhound leaps onto the table to rest a head on Lucifer's knee. He places a hand on her head, feels the small ridges of her skull. "You're my vessel, Sam."

"No shit?" An incredulous eyebrow. Lucifer thinks he's being mocked.

"Made for each other, remember? You, me, operating in a recursive loop. That moment when you resisted me you proved yourself my equal. Your puny human brain up against an archangel? Hate to say it, but you're kind of a genius, Sam."

"And you're still creepy as ever." Sam is utterly dismissive of Lucifer, thumb flicking over his phone. "Look, it's late. I mean, if you think they'll be fine, I guess you know better than me." He glances up at Lucifer, chewing his lip. Holds back his words. Lucifer peeks over his shoulder to look at the map on the screen, a patch of green labelled Tate's Hell State Forest. Where Nehebkau is. And a red dot, blinking. Sam exhales in relief. "Yeah. Right. I guess we just wait till morning."

"You're tracking Castiel's phone, too? His bike wasn't enough for you?" Leaning on Sam's broad back, he pokes at the screen. Sam shoves him off. 

"Dean's, actually. And before you talk shit. We've always got some kind of backup way to find each other. You don't even know how many times that's saved our asses. I mean... it's not that different from your angel radio, right?" Shutting the laptop, Sam stands up and starts closing books, arranging them into logical stacks. The dog on Lucifer's lap is asleep, and there's an awkward moment when he realizes that Sam still doesn't exactly trust him in the bunker. There's a weariness in Sam's eyes, revealed by slow blinks, and he's pushing his hair out of his face with a yawn. "You're going back to the shelter, right?"

Lucifer has a coat, and it's a warm night. Beneath the trees above the bunker's entrance, he can't see the stars for the boughs. Even then sleep won't come easily. When the moon rises it's even harder to rest, each pine needle stark in the pale light. Finally he gives up. Rises. The road leading to the bunker is a pale strip, and the moped has a headlight. Bright enough for him to see the lines of sigils traced in the dirt, bright enough for his blood to catch a hint of color. It's a messy ritual, Lucifer piecing together the magic of humans and demons alike, but it works.

Not even a crackle of lightning signals her approach. The chatter of mosquitos and cicadas grows, then suddenly falls silent. Hecate is a cloud-covered moon. She doesn't greet Lucifer; in fact, she seems... frazzled. Ruling the underworld must be taking its toll. "You released Nehebkau?" Lucifer asks, and her sigh rustles in the trees.

"I couldn't control him." Hecate rubs a thumb in the dirt, smearing Lucifer's magic. Her skirts are askew in the center of the summoning circle. "I don't have time to look after your pets, Lucifer. What he does isn't my responsibility."

"He became your responsibility when you took over Hell... Mother." 

It's risky, but she shows little reaction on her inhuman face. "No. No - your father made it clear enough -"

"What an asshole, right?" Squatting before the circle, Lucifer wraps an arm around his knees and gives her an insolent grin. "But you still care, don't you." 

"You've read the tablet," she says, ignoring Lucifer's accusations. "Who else?"

"Only me and Castiel."

"Rebels and kinslayers, of course," she mutters. "None of you were ever supposed to know."

"What? You're not proud of us?"

Hecate pauses, mulling over memory. "The thing about you archangels is that you have just enough of me in you to stay interesting. As much as I may despise you, Lucifer - "

"Oh, don't even pretend. You've been looking out for me. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Pretty rude, you know. I never asked you to."

"Yes, I've been... protecting you." When Hecate stands upright, Lucifer feels small for the first time in his life. "Lucifer. I've watched my children tear each other apart. I've watched you struggle to rule over your father's robots, wondering why you could never relate to your own kin. I've watched your father's expectations destroy you. When he and I split up, when Castiel rebelled against me, when you slaughtered your brother... I won't deny it broke my heart. But I can't blame you for the Ahura Mazda's mistakes. No matter how much I'd like to." She curls her lip in disgust. "No matter how many of them I've been left to clean up."

Lucifer eyes her warily. For all that she is vast and impenetrable, Lucifer thinks he might see something breaking. The word 'mother' still sounds blasphemous, but it did the trick, igniting some long-lost spark of familiarity. Hecate doesn't look particularly helpful, though, and trepidation stalls him for a moment. "So, what does this mean? You'll help me?" 

"What do you want?" 

It's not a yes or a no, but it'll do. "They call it Tate's Hell State Forest. Southeastern corner of this continent. I've lost my wings, see. But you? You can just - you know." His hands swoop, fingers flapping. Just like Sam taught him. "Get me there. And I'll take care of it."


	17. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy shit guys i fucke d up and cut off half of this chapter when i uploaded b4 and only JUST REALISED IT and i wasnt even using the right section. obviously i need a better system than copy pasting from a single giant notepad file

"Shit, what?"

"He's just gone." Dean's hissing, forcing out the words between his teeth. 

"When did you lose him? Last night?" A sudden choking sound on the other end of the line. "I tried to call him when Lucifer showed up, but..."

"Yeah, well. He lost his damn phone in the god damn swamp when he almost drowned the other night! Wait. Lucifer showed up? At the bunker? Why the hell didn't you call?"

"I dunno." Cradling the phone on his shoulder, Sam scoops dog food into six bowls. The water bowls are full of hair and drool, he'll have to wash them out. "He was talking about some kind of archangel business, wouldn't say anything. What did Cas say? Does he know what's out there?"

Dean's still stuck on the Lucifer thing. Sam puts him on speakerphone. Even with the water running in the sink, Dean's voice is loud enough. "What the hell does Lucifer want with Cas? Was he there last night? What'd he say?"

"I just told you. He seemed... kind of worried? About Cas?" Sounds off just saying it. "But this swamp monster thing - he knows what it is, Dean. You ever heard of Nehebkau?"

"What? Some Egyptian god, right?"

"Guardian of the underworld in the lore. Tamed by Ra. Also known as, god of light. Also known as, Lucifer. Back before Lucifer's fall, it was kind of his pet, I guess. He said it should recognize Cas."

"His pet," Dean repeats. "Sure recognized Cas though. It was... he was acting weird, man. It had some kind of effect on him. Soon as we got out on the bayou, he got all obsessed and crazy about it." The phone crackles with static when Dean huffs into the receiver. "After... I thought I made it fucking clear that we weren't gonna do this. Go run off on some suicide mission like a fucking jackass. It's like he's snapped or something. After the archangel shit and now this? I don't know."

"You want me to come over there?"

"It's a twelve hour drive, Sam."

"I could fly."

"Bet you could. Look. I'll... I gotta go, man. I'll keep you updated. Maybe he's just... could be Cas just wanted to... for all I know he'll be knocking on the door in ten minutes with breakfast or something. Probably got lost in the store again, right? I'm just.... yeah. Call you back."

What the hell. That's an entire reeking bag of garbage right there, but Sam will be damned if he tries to sort it out. He'll wait for the call. For Lucifer to come back. In the meantime Sam can clean the water bowls. Drink his coffee. Put on his jogging clothes. Juliet at his heels, he opens the bunker door and the first thing he sees is the moped leaning on the kickstand. A great bloody summoning circle marks the side of the road, sigils crammed together between cardinal points. No sign of Lucifer. 

So they've lost both angels. They seem to be making a habit of that. Not that Sam has been paying much attention to shit lately. It's fine if he's overwhelmed, right? It's fine if he's exhausted, if he just. Stops. Rests. All he wanted to do was sleep. And he did sleep - a great six hours, no dreams. He was half afraid Lucifer would trigger nightmares again. It's weird enough seeing him in the flesh. It's even worse seeing him weak, just as fragile as any other human. Worse than all of that, the weirdest part of the past few weeks, was how okay last night was. Lucifer was animated, focused, telling stories that probably no one, not a single other human had ever heard. Ever would hear. There was the thrill of that, sure. Sam's gotten caught up in the research enough times. Assembling the mind palace and then throwing a house party is always a good time. But with Lucifer, it shouldn't feel comfortable. Not like Lucifer would let him forget, either - of course he had to bring up the vessel shit again. As if that was even relevant now. 

Examining the circle, Sam holds back the resurfacing twinge of guilt. At least he wasn't about to let Lucifer sleep in the bunker. Maybe Lucifer had looked.... dejected? But that's fine - not like he asked to stay or anything.

What if he had? What if Sam let him? 

Then Sam would've just had to deal with whatever-the-fuck-he-did in the bunker. Or, another reasonable voice argues, Sam could've kept an eye on him. That's what Sam was supposed to be doing. Well, that's what he's doing now, right? The moped is a bust, but there's some Greek symbols, some Sumerian. Some of the lines are smeared, but he can put it together. He takes several photos from various angles. Juliet seems offended when he shoos her back inside the bunker. 

When he lays it all out between cups of coffee and slices of toast it's pretty obvious. Between Hecate and Lucifer the problem may very well solve itself. Okay, not the "whatever the hell is going on with Dean and Cas" problem, but the swamp monster shouldn't stand a chance.

* * *

Riot used to need a good brushing down a few times a week to prevent matting. Juliet has similar needs, but it's taken a while to get her acclimated to the brush. As soon as Sam shows her the brush she ducks her head and curls up under a chair, flopping with a defiant little whuff. Ten minutes of gentle coaxing later and Sam finally can brush around her shoulders. They're still working up to the hind legs. He's perfectly calm. Everything is normal. But he can ease the brush further down her body, a little more every time...

A sudden chirp from his phone breaks the spell. Juliet perks her ears, sits up, and the grooming session is over. For now. 

**I lied. Cas is ok. freaked out over nothing**

Freaked out, yeah. Sam laughs, shoos Juliet away with a pat on her butt. _good to hear_ , he sends back. _he there now?_

**yeah??**

_what are you doing? where are you right now?_

**we're in assfuck florida with our thumbs up our asses whats going on**

_gross. wash your hands. you've got company. soon, anyways_

The phone starts ringing immediately.

"Are you flying in?" Dean demands. "What's going on?"

"Not me. Lucifer. And Hecate."

"Lucifer? When did you talk to Lucifer?"

"Uh, last night? Remember? I literally just told you about this like, two hours ago."

"Of course I remember! But you didn't say he was coming here! Wait. You are saying he's coming here?"

There it is. He's not slurring or anything; Dean's a professional. But Sam can always tell when his brother's been drinking. It's 9:15 in the morning - well, an hour ahead in Florida. "Can, I, uh, talk to Cas?"

"No."

Cas might be the one to let Dean get drunk before noon. Cas often joins Dean in getting drunk before noon. But it's pretty obvious Cas isn't around right now. Something big happened last night, and there is no way Sam is going to ask. Definitely not a conversation to have over the phone, at least. Sam runs it over in his head - Cas wasn't there, he came back, something else happened this morning, and now Cas is gone again. Sam was anticipating a shitshow, but. Wow. Yep, _something big happened._ "Right, well. From what I can figure, Lucifer and Hecate are heading to Florida to check out your swamp monster. And, uh, probably look for Cas. I thought they'd be kicking down your door by now."

"I wouldn't know," Dean says blithely. "Great, so Cas's got his lunatic relatives coming to deal with Nessie, what else is new?"

"Nothing, I guess."

"Are those fucking dogs still there?"

"Yup." 

"Well, aren't you living the dream."

"Hah! Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it's a lot of dog."

"Don't let 'em on the couches. And sweep up the damn hair sometime today." Dean's voice has lost some of its edge. A heavy sigh sounds on the other side of the line. Sam can see him, hunched over a sticky counter somewhere rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. He knows Cas is painting his own pathetic scene somewhere, but he kind of wants to punch Cas right now. Dean too, shit. Maybe he should fly down to 'assfuck, Florida" and take care of it. Dean sounds like he needs to shoot something in the face and all he's got on his plate is the same thing Lucifer's going after. He considers it just long enough to look up flights to Tallahassee International. Four and a half hours, and that's if he could find a flight today. 

"Right. Yeah, yeah, I'll sweep or whatever. Go kick some ass today, right?" 

"S'what I do," Dean says, and there's an audible gulp of liquid. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Juliet puts her head on his knee, giving him worried brown eyes. "You wanna try the brush again? Huh, girl? Yeah, let's do that. Let's get some hair all over this damn bunker."


	18. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer has a sad. Then he has a drink.

Cas left early, scurrying from the intimacy of the bed before Dean could wake. Then he'd turned the Impala back around and picked up breakfast. It was the right thing, wasn't it?

The mouth of the Apalachicola river is visible from the parking lot of the inn, still shrouded in the pink mist of dawn. Seated on a concrete embankment, Cas tries not to look for murky shapes in the water. The coffee cup in his hand is already cooling. Behind him are the sounds of morning, doors slamming and cars starting up. Dean shouting his name. Cas turns to see Dean wrapped in a bathrobe, leaning up on the second-story balcony outside of their room. Dean's a little too far away to make out his expression but when he looks down at the Impala and slams a fist on the railing, it's pretty clear Cas wasn't able to get away with it. It's been at least two hours since he left. Who knows when Dean woke up. How long he's been waiting.

Now he has to go back.

By the time he makes it up to the room Dean is dressed, hands clenched at the table. Cas sets the takeout sack like a barrier between them. "I got breakfast," he says, as if that's a good enough excuse.

Dean nods mutely, unwrapping sausage biscuits. It'd be easier if he was yelling. 

"I'm sorry."

Dean chews. Swallows. "What for? These biscuits are bomb. Where'd you get them?"

"Gas station."

"Mmm."

A two minute stop. He'd refilled the tank so that Dean wouldn't know he'd taken the car. Cas almost wishes he had lied, but it's already out there. 

"So what exactly are you sorry for, Cas?"

Biscuit crumbs cling to Cas's fingers. He licks them off methodically before answering. "Everything."

"Every what? I mean, I was kind of pissed when I saw the car gone, but hey, you show up with some greasy breakfast and coffee, I ain't complaining." His smile is nauseating. Dean already knows. 

"The liberties I took.... today and last night. I'm apologizing for everything, Dean."

Dean's line of sight is fixed somewhere below and to the right of Cas. He sucks in his lower lip for an instant. The same heartbreaking smile. It doesn't deserve the name; Cas has seen Dean's real smiles enough. "Right. Alright, Cas." Abruptly he's standing up and crumpling the wrapper to his sandwich in a quick flash of fist. "So that's how we're gonna play it?"

"Play what?"

"Don't even - just shut the fuck up. If you think - if that was - " Dean bends over, tying his boots with military speed. "I get it, Cas, okay? No, don't you fucking say anything. You take my car, you don't have a phone, you're taking two hours to stop at a fucking gas station. You ran away. After - you ran away. And you thought you could get away with it."

"I'm apologizing for that too."

"Yeah. Thanks. And you know something? I'm sorry too. Big fucking mistake on my part. Look at you, you don't even give a shit. Well, I'm apologizing anyways. If I made you think that was something - we both fucked up." Boots tied, coat on, a last minute grab for keys and wallet. "Always one step forward, two steps back with you. Well, screw you too, buddy." The door slams behind Dean. The Impala gives a familiar roar, a screech of tires.

Cas is still sitting in front of a half-eaten sausage biscuit, staring at the empty chair across the table. 

Run after him. Leap on the trunk of the Impala. Throw himself in front of it. Anything.

Instead he opens the laptop left on the table. 

According to the latest reports, the Tate's Hellbeast has been spotted in the Apalachicola river. After traveling so far so fast, it's hovering here. Around Castiel. Traffic reports declare the 98 a mess as the tourists leave and hunters and government agencies pour in. The entire waterfront is shut down as helicopters hover like vultures above the mouth of the river. The weather promised to be clear, but when Cas slides back the curtains the skies are heavy and electric, pulsing with the promise of a storm. Something isn't right.

He turns on the TV and waits for the emergency broadcast.

* * *

Cas jogs down flat streets, past abandoned tackle and boat rental shops. Sirens wail, closer and closer, coming from all directions. As the wind builds he sprints, whipping past palm trees, and then skids to a halt at the beach. The scene is still chaos. Patrol cars pull up behind him. The spinning red light of a firetruck casts a reddish glow as the dawning sun disappears behind cloud cover. People are shouting, shoving past each other. Police pour in, desperately pushing back. Spools of yellow tape unwind between hastily-placed orange cones. A newscaster in fluorescent yellow keeps glancing between the scene on the beach and a camera, saying something about animal rights protestors. Cas forces his way through the crowd till he can see the massive corpse, drained and flat on the beach, and the man crouched above its head. 

Lucifer is soaked through and filthy, but still wearing the coat Castiel gave him. The spear makes a sucking sound when he yanks it out of the creature's eye. Blood flies in an arc as he points the spear toward a khaki-vested hunter holding a speargun. Officers are drawing guns, shouting, but Lucifer is focused fury. "You careless apes," he's growling, almost too low to hear among the cacophony. If he were still an archangel, the sand would be soaked in blood. Lucifer jerks his head at Cas's approach, but he's still aiming the spear at the hunter. 

Someone reaches for Cas and he shoves, hard.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You need to get back-"

Cas hisses. "Lucifer. Put down the spear. What's happening?" 

"They killed him," Lucifer snarls. "I almost had him under control, and that thing there just shot him. He took what was mine! I'm going to -"

"This animal is yours?"

"Ours."

The beast is a moonscape of pebbled skin. A mottled tongue lolls from its open jaws, framed by those massive teeth Castiel touched. Already flies are buzzing around the corpse. The tail cuts a smooth break in the surf, nearly as thick as the body itself and twice as long. Castiel is perhaps the size of a forearm. Lucifer sighs, watching Castiel with broken eyes. "You don't know Nehebkau, brother?"

"He knew me," Castiel says. "But... this is madness. You need to get out of here. These people will-"

"I will take my revenge," Lucifer spits. The spear trembles in his hands. Before he can even stand up he's jerked back by three armed officers, swiftly grabbed into a headlock. They throw him down on the sand, pulling out handcuffs. Castiel slowly back away, into the crowd, but he's being grabbed at as well. So much shouting.

"Enough of that," a voice rings out. "He's spent long enough in chains." Castiel can barely see her sitting on the sidelines with her skirts hiked up around her knees. Hecate draws circles in the sand with a finger, but there's a cold light in her eyes. "Give him time to mourn," she orders, and _snaps_ -

Waves freeze in mid-crash. The rain is a mosaic of individual droplets. t's a simple trick, one that Castiel has pulled many times. Slip through the gaps between dimensions, form a pocket, and slow time there just enough to make the outside dimensions seem to stop. It's nothing to be awestruck over, yet Hecate is giving him a wry smile. Frowning, Castiel looks away from her. He brushes past immobile humans to kneel by the hulking corpse.

"I watched you swim with him in the valleys of the deep," Hecate says. "Back when you were a new thoughtform. Before you became such a brat."

"I don't remember," Cas says. One of Nehebkau's eyes is burst open from the killing shot, the other a dull yellow. He passes his hand over it, closing the lid. Lucifer raises his head to watch him, face a sullen mask. "I... perhaps I do, or I could. I don't know." He feels like an intruder. This isn't his grief to share. He has his own misery to deal with, one that ran out of the room just this morning. Yet when he looks at the animal, the bottom of his chest drops out further, expanding the abyss. 

This part of Castiel died so long ago, he never even knew to mourn. Now he doesn't know how. Unsure, he strokes the dragon's head. Hand sliding closer to Lucifer, fingers brushing his wrist. Lucifer tenses at his touch. "I'm sorry," he whispers. 

"You didn't do this," Lucifer frowns. Every apology Cas makes is a mistake. "He should've been safe, swimming the rivers of Purgatory. If Hecate was having problems with him, she should've asked me. I could've dealt with it."

"So we're both to blame," Hecate says flippantly. "You were the one responsible for him in the first place." 

Lucifer sighs. "He wouldn't listen to me. If I hadn't... abandoned him. If Father hadn't imprisoned me. Should I never have taken him in the first place? Or maybe I never should've existed. This isn't about blame. It's too late for that." Rubbing his eyes only makes them redder, his hands crusted in sand and grit. Cas can see the logo of a charity organization that supports the men's shelter on his soaked shirt. Every time Cas has seen him he's looked healthier but only now, drooping in grief and dripping in seawater, does the body truly look like his own. 

A cold hand on their shoulders startles Cas. Lucifer has no reaction. Hecate's voice has dropped to something gentle. "You've had your moment. Now I'm taking him back to the sea, where he was born. And you two had best leave this beach behind. There's going to be some very confused humans in a moment." 

Cas gets up, but Lucifer won't move. He grabs his elbow, tugs. Harder, until Lucifer finally forces himself to stand up. Follows Castiel into town as the clouds thin out and the rain slows to a gentle weep.

* * *

The Impala is still missing. Inside the room the television still blares. A half-eaten sausage biscuit lies cold on the table. Cas hands Lucifer the top half of the biscuit and he eats it automatically. Brings a hand to his temple, presses it and grimaces. Throwing himself on Dean's bed, Cas studies Lucifer where he's awkwardly hovering. He should say something, but he can't bring himself to think of anything. Something that won't only make things worse. Cas doesn't seem to be very good at that these days. "Your head hurts?" 

"Yes. That's very loud." Lucifer gestures at the television. "What is that? Why are those animals in cages?"

Cas lifts his head from the pillow to watch for a moment. "It's a zoo. This is one of the 'light-hearted' news segments," he says, fingerquoting carefully. Not that Lucifer understands the gesture. 

"Light-hearted," Lucifer repeats. Sinking to his knees, he peers close enough for his breath to fog the glass. "This makes them happy?"

"This makes them happy, too." Cas swirls the bottle he pulled from Dean's duffle and takes another sip. "You should try some."

Lucifer turns and makes a face. "Why?"

"This is what I've learned about humanity. You eat when you're hungry. You defecate when you must. You sleep to waste time. You drink when you're miserable." He might be quoting Dean. He wouldn't be surprised. Dean has told him so many things, the rules of human survival, that they're just a part of Cas now.

Lucifer is curious. Enough to sniff and wrinkle his nose. Enough to taste a tiny swig, then rear back and retch. Cas takes the bottle and shows him how to chug. Lucifer's second try isn't so bad, but it dribbles down his chin. "It burns," Lucifer whines, but he's licking his lips. 

"I got drunk when I was an angel once," Cas confides. "It was the first time I had ever stopped. Stood still. Experienced oblivion. I don't know if it helped anything."

"Why did you do it?"

"I was in mourning. I was alone. I was lost." He takes the bottle back. "Guess that hasn't changed."

"The drink is changing your voice." Cas tries to resist, but Lucifer folds back his fingers from the bottle. Sets it on the table. The lid is already lost somewhere in the bedsheets. "I was going to ask you something, Castiel."

"What?"

"Why are so many angels coming to Lebanon? Even Gadreel dares to show his face to other angels. I wouldn't have even expected him to take a human form." Lucifer sneers. "I keep seeing them at the shelter. They know I'm there. It's interfering with my work. I don't know what Luther did today without me to pick up the bakery donations." 

"You left?"

"Sam wouldn't let me stay in the bunker," Lucifer mutters, glancing at the bottle. "Answer my question. Did you tell them where I was?"

"No. But considering the state of most of the other angels, I'm not surprised you were found." A chuckle escapes Cas's throat. Of course. He forgot. It all seems so pointless now. "I... I was trying to find as many as I could. I thought to read the tablets. Tell them the truth."

"What would be the point of that, exactly?"

"I don't know. I thought they should know."

"That's stupid. You're stupid." Crossing his arms, Lucifer settles on the edge of the bed. "What good would that do? What would they do with that information? That was for us archangels. It doesn't concern them."

"We're not archangels anymore. We're on the same level as them, now. Humans." Lucifer digs his fingers into the velour bedspread. Bites his lip. Looks at the remains of the sausage biscuit on the table. After months, Lucifer seems to have learned something. "Alright, you're right, it was stupid. I shouldn't have cared. I don't anymore," Cas says, rambling now. "I just need to find Dean now."

Wherever Dean may be, Cas can bet he's getting drunk. Weary as he is Cas manages to stand up long enough to fetch the bottle. He gives it to Lucifer first, who takes another small sip and shakes his head. "You like this?"

"Not really. But I need it."

"Ugh." Lucifer tries another sip. "Oh. Well. This is something new."


	19. Lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hangover pt 3

Despite the goosebumps on his arm offering clear evidence to the contrary, it's too warm inside the Greyhound station. He took his coat off some time ago - where is his coat, anyways? 

Everyone here looks sad. The station itself looks sad, all beige linoleum and hard chairs. What seemed to a particularly lush specimen of bromeliad turned out to be plastic, and that must be the saddest thing in here. He tries to pull off a leaf and put it out of it's misery but it won't come off and then Castiel is grumbling and swatting his hand and he changes his mind. Castiel must be the saddest thing in here. Trying to hide it, of course. Liquor lit a passionate, furious fire in Castiel, dragging Lucifer in its wake until they found themselves at the Greyhound station because apparently Castiel will die if he sees Dean again. Lucifer didn't particularly care to see Dean either. Dean will put the rope on him and hurt his wrists again. But Dean has the car, and he's got to get back to the shelter in time for his shift but he's in Florida and he doesn't have his wings and the musky brine of the sea that sticks to him is mixing with the stale recycled air in here. If he gets up to go to the washroom he'll have to leave this fantastic chair. If he just closes his eyes he won't be able to see the sand crusted under his fingernails. He won't have to see the sad people in here. 

There's so much. Somehow, simultaneously, there is nothing. Human body chemistry is miraculous and terrifying all at once and it's exhausting. 

"Stop that. You can't pass out here. Wait till we get on the bus." Castiel slaps his shoulder. He's got a map unfolded on his lap. "So, the closest stop to Lebanon is in Salina. We'll have to hitchhike if you want to make it back to Lebanon."

"We could call Sam," Lucifer volunteers.

"I don't think that's wise."

"Sam has my moped. I left it at the bunker. He'll pick us up in the car. There's a lot of cars in that bunker. Is that water?" Cas blinks, drops the bottle from his lips before he drains it. It isn't enough. Lucifer feels dizzy. Castiel drank as much as he did, but Castiel doesn't seem to be as affected as he is. Dimly he is aware that he's slouching in the seat, that his eyes want to drift closed. "Why don't you want to see Sam?"

"He'll tell Dean." 

"So?"

"I can't see Dean anymore. Dean doesn't want to see me. It's none of your business. Why are you asking me about Dean?"

"You're loud."

"No I'm not!" 

A security guard gives them a long, searching look. Lucifer waves at him. Why does everyone look so sad?

He isn't sad. Not anymore. Isn't he? Lucifer tries to think back. This morning. Last night. Pleading, eyes stinging. A long body slipping away in the water. The beach. That was a mistake. He shouldn't have tried to think. Lucifer closes his eyes and wills the sweet blank feeling back. He can't feel his face, but he knows his cheeks are scrunched in a smile. It's great. It's really great to be here, with his brother (his brother!) and they're going to do something together, go somewhere, wherever, anywhere. He can go back to work and make corn chowder with Luther tomorrow. He can get the moped back from Sam and tell him all about what happened. Why is he thinking about Nehebkau again? No, not that, he's supposed to - 

"Stay awake." Whispers and prods on his left side. The map has fallen to the floor but Castiel hasn't noticed because he's so sad. "I'll be right back." 

Castiel comes back with something salty. Pretzels? Crackers? Chips? Crunchy mixes with saliva to turn pasty. More water.

* * *

Scratchy seats. Lucifer's breath on the window thick enough to drag a finger through. Highway and trees, trucks and road signs. Asleep. Awake. Everything blurs as Lucifer rides the waves of drunken consciousness. 

Castiel is pressure on his shoulder, drool sopping through his shirt. When the bus stops Lucifer stretches his legs woozily. Then the bile rises, and he runs. In a concrete-lined bathroom that reeks of piss he vomits, heaving over the toilet, shivering through the motions of cleaning up. A scratched mirror above the sink reveals his own haggard face. Lucifer rubs the bruises under his eyes, prods the waxen stubble on his jaw, and wonders how he is still alive. Castiel is a dark, sticky mess of hair hunched over the other sink, spitting phlegm straight down the drain. They lean on each other a bit as they shuffle out of the bathroom. 

Sometime in the haze of the morning Castiel warned him about hangovers. He hadn't listened. It's just another new thing. The queasiness in his stomach, the pain encircling his skull, the emptiness in his chest. He's felt exhaustion before, but the hangover is different. Tension in every muscle, a strange buzzing energy when all he wants to do is sleep more. He's hungry but he doesn't want to eat, thirsty but he doesn't want to drink.

There's a pay phone tucked away near the women's restroom. Lucifer wouldn't notice if it wasn't for Castiel's sudden bolt. He makes a face when Lucifer tries to follow him into the booth. Castiel speaks softly, twisting the cord in his hands as someone shouts from the other end of the line. Waiting, he watches Castiel crumple, close his eyes, shudder.

"Dean," Castiel says, brokenly, and then he hangs up. Falls to his knees. Grips his hair with his hands. Lucifer sidles closer to him, taps him on the shoulder. 

"You should call Sam."

Castiel digs in his pockets, hands Lucifer some coins. It takes a minute but he finds the slot easily enough. Castiel tells him buttons to press but the beeps are so loud, so loud in his pounding skull. Sam doesn't sound surprised to hear Lucifer's voice. He knew where Lucifer was, where he went last night. No tracking devices involved. Of course Sam knew. Smart human, that one.

"I was right," Lucifer tells him. "It was Nehebkau."

"Yeah? How'd that go?"

"What do you mean, how did it go? It didn't 'go'. Nehebkau is dead. He went feral, or something, he wouldn't listen to me. All night I tried to reach him." Twelve hours. It was only twelve hours. Against the years Lucifer has lived it should have been nothing. "But they got him in the end. A speargun through the eye."

"Sorry to hear that," Sam says, cautiously.

"Why does everyone say that? Sorry. It wasn't your fault. If I hadn't - "

"It's just... condolences, you know?"

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Is that kindness?"

A dog barks on the other end of the line. Sam's voice wavers. "I guess? It's just what you say when someone loses someone. Or something. But, I mean, it isn't about blame. Don't say 'if I hadn't', don't turn this into a blame thing. Believe me. I saw the news, man, they were offering ten gs to whoever killed that thing first. It was bound to happen."

"That sounds like destiny. I thought you didn't like that."

"Pfft, okay, I guess sympathizing is off the schedule. So what's going on? Is Dean okay? Can I talk to Cas?"

"Dean is not here." Dean's name seems to be a trigger for Castiel. He looks around for his brother, but Castiel must be inside the store by now. 

"Wait. What?"

"Castiel insisted we could not accompany him. So we'll need you to pck us up in Salina, Kansas, at the Greyhound station, in, some time. I'm actually not sure."

"You guys took a bus," Sam says flatly. "Where are you now?"

"There was a bathroom? I don't know. Your voice is very loud, Sam."

"Hold on, what the fuck -"

"We need to get back on the bus. It'll leave without us. We'll call you soon...whenever this bus ride ends. Bring the moped when you come to pick us up. Goodbye, Sam." There's some indignant squawking on the other end of the line, but he hangs up anyways. 

Back to the scratchy seat, the window against his cheek. Lucifer tries to sleep, but the aching in his head won't let him. As his side Castiel is silent as a corpse, eyes wide and staring at nothing.

* * *

Salina is a flat grey expanse under the twilight sky. Moths swarm around yellow bulbs on the fritz, irregular shadows dancing on the roof of the bus shelter. Lucifer has to drag Castiel to a bench, brush it clear of cigarette ash and empty chip bags. 

"Dean could be back at the bunker by now," Castiel mutters. "We'll find something in the morning. I need to sleep."

"Are we sleeping here?" 

Castiel groans, drops his duffel on the far side of the bench and pulls out two flannel shirts, tossing one to Lucifer before pillowing his head down on the duffel bag and dropping the shirt over his head. Lucifer has slept on plenty of benches before, in places less protected than this. After sleeping all day, though, he's agitated. His feet carry him in circles around the station. Plenty of other people are sleeping here, or at least trying to. Their eyes are dead, faces slack, buried in coats and draped over bags. 

_Sad people._

First the shelter, then the bus stations. This is what Castiel surrounds himself with. This is how he fits in among them so well. 

A woman with a mane of red curls grudgingly gives him a cigarette, holding it out between two fingers before he's even said a word. "Don't have any change," she says.

Lucifer takes the thin paper tube, curious. She lights it for him. It's acrid and tangy in his lungs, cutting off his circulation for a moment. He mimics the sucking of her cheeks. Nods in brief acknowledgement, perhaps thanks, and then leaves her to her own solitude. After a few drags, he thinks he likes it. At least it's something to do. Curling billows of smoke look white against the night sky as they drift up towards the stars. He breathes in and out, giving it up to the sky. Here, in this quiet place of transition, it's as if last night never happened. 

One anchor to his past is buried at the bottom of the ocean. The other one is passed out on a bench. Or perhaps Castiel is a course to his future. Already he's seen so many new things. Compared to his first few months as a human the past six weeks have been a revelation. Nothing too drastic needed to happen. There's only one difference, Lucifer realizes, and while it shakes him there's an unspeakable, undescribable warmth. 

He isn't alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done.
> 
> If you've stuck with me this far I can't thank you enough!


	20. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dogs and showers, yup, this is kind of shameless.

The dogs have all eaten and pooped. Should Sam have to bolt, they'll be fine.

Sam is not fine.

Sam needs to do fucking damage control. That's not okay. 

There was Dean, stumbling down the bunker stairs and heading straight for the kitchen, all ashen pallor and tense way of holding his neck that said he'd just driven eleven hours without break. Sam waited for the pop and hiss of a beer being opened, the rustling of bags and slap of knife on cutting board before he ventured near. He waited until Dean was finished with his sandwich before he said anything. 

The thing is, he knows Dean will take this shit out on him. Regret it later, sure, but. There's a staggering library of shit they Do Not Talk About, but Sam has saved a few files in the We Will Need To Talk About This Someday God Damn It Dean folder. But there's also a dark purple bruise on Dean's collarbone that Sam just knows isn't actually supposed to exist.

Maybe someday isn't today.

There's a nice family in a Wichita suburb whose house they cleared of a poltergeist some years back who are willing to adopt a former Hellhound. Sam sent them photos of the pretty red hound. Jody Mills expressed an interest in 'something small', and there's a retired recluse of a hunter named Nate who likes Growley. So that's three down, two to go. Sam's already decided Juliet is staying. But yeah, six dogs? It's kind of extreme. Just the past few days he's been overwhelmed with dog, dog, dog. Drama erupting over food bowls and sleeping spots. Hours sitting on the floor, just absorbing dog. If he spends too much time petting one the others get jealous, the hierarchy keeps shifting, it's a lot to keep up with. It's been a fun ride, but it's too much. 

He's tapping out an email, mindlessly drinking coffee even though he knows how late at night it is, when Dean comes and sits down with a heavy huff. 

"I don't think Cas is coming back," Dean startings, thumb tapping the beer bottle. It's actually still pretty full. Sam hasn't heard another open. "He's such a fucking idiot."

Maybe someday is today.

Sam is quiet. He doesn't make eye contact. Dean stares at the table.

"Cas thinks he's gonna hurt me. That he already did. I mean, yeah, obviously, but it wasn't until he tried to make a fucking run for it. I thought we'd... I dunno. It seemed like something important. Like things were gonna be different. We'd made a step forward and then he just threw it all away, like it didn't fucking matter. And I get it, I do. That feeling like you'll burn everything you touch, and you don't deserve it anyways, so you can't let yourself have it. But Cas, out of all the other screw-ups here, up against everything I've done, against all the greatest hits of the worst of humanity, he shouldn't have to feel that way. Not ever. Whatever he thinks he's done it's done, and I know he had his reasons and I just. I don't even care. He just needs to - fuck, he needs to let me - or anyone - just let someone help him for once. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what the hell he needs anymore..You've seen how he is, Sam. He's been so fucking depressed. There's no reaching him. And I've tried and tried to get through, but.... 

....so whatever. Maybe he needs to run away with Lucifer for a while? If that's what he wants to do?" Dean actually laughs. "I can't believe I'm fucking saying it, but. I mean, I guess they're fucking brothers now or whatever. Maybe they can work out their newly human shit together."

And then Dean makes a face. Like he's just imagined something and now wants to rip his brain out of his skull. 

Sam can venture a guess. 

But apparently it's his turn to talk now. 

"Dean... you know Cas is a lot older than us."

"No shit, Sam."

"Yeah, but like, do we ever actually think about that? Treat him like that?"

"It's hard not to. What are you getting at?"

"Okay, so what I mean is, is Cas something we have to protect? Or does he need to protect us? See, this is it, Dean. Cas thinks he's broken and he's seen us, he knows how messed up we are, and he thinks he's even worse off than us. He's something so much bigger than us, and we. Uh. Kind of treat him like a kid sometimes. So that alone must be really, really weird for him."

"Cas isn't broken," Dean says with unnecessary ferocity. "And why does it have to be one or the other? We can protect each other. That's what family does! That's what I fucking told him!"

"Did you talk to him today?"

"He called me from a pay phone at a rest stop somewhere. And I told him, Sam. I told him we were family and I didn't give a shit how broken he thinks he is or what horrible crap he thinks he's done. I just told him to come home. And he said no. Now what the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

"He does have Lucifer with him."

"I can't even say I give a shit at this point. I know, I know. But I saw you pin him down like he was six years old. For actual Satan, he really doesn't seem too hot. And Cas is all about this brotherly bonding thing now, so, whatever, fucking angels. And then he said... fuck. Cas said." Dean rubs his eyes, grimacing. "He said we've all hurt Sam somehow. And then he brought up your soul again."

"Holy shit. Does he think... shit, does he think I give a crap about that? At all?"

"I don't know! The GPS we put, he thinks it's some symbol of our distrust. All we wanted to do was keep him safe and be able to pull him out if he got in an accident, and now it's this whole trust issue again. I just. I can't, Sam."

"Well, look. We know one thing. Cas loves us." Words chosen carefully. He doesn't want to single it out, draw attention to it. There may be a bruise on Dean's neck which just goes to show how Sam is always right about everything. "He'll come back. He always does."

"I know. I guess. What are you looking at?"

"Oh, uh, just might've found some homes for some of these dogs," Sam says, flipping the tablet around, and they've successfully changed the subject.

The thing is, Sam is still the little brother. So when he gets a call from a Greyhound station at six in the morning, he's allowed to lie. It's for the greater good. 

Cas and Lucifer are rumpled and exhausted, but Lucifer is definitely wearing one of Cas's flannel shirts. Fortunately they're stinking and greasy so Sam can offer up showers in the bunker, Cas getting a chance to grab anything he might need. No, the moped didn't fit in the car, they'll have to ride back to get it. Besides, Dean's still in Arkansas and won't be back till around noon. He'll drop them off at the shelter or another bus station or wherever they're trying to go. And there's food back at the bunker. Wouldn't they want some sandwiches or something? 

They look kind of baffled, but then glance at each other and sure, okay. 

The timing couldn't be better. Dean is making coffee by the time Cas gets out of the shower. Lucifer is still busy in there and Sam might have to go check on him in a minute. So it's just Cas walking into the kitchen, still dripping wet with one towel around his waist and the other around his shoulders. Earth actually stops spinning and Dean spills half the coffee all over the floor. Cas has been successfully programmed into cleaning up after Winchesters, so he's already got pulling the towel over his head and sopping up the mess before Dean can say anything. 

"It's fine, Cas, I'll get it - "

"I've already got it, you don't have to - "

"No no no, let me - "

"I'm almost done, if you just step aside -"

"Okay, I'll, um, let me just get more coffee started then." Except now Dean's just adding water to what was already brewed because he's too busy staring at Cas, and then Cas stands up and awkwardly holds his towel in front of him like a banner of surrender and they're so busy staring at each other that Sam is gonna get away with his terrible lies.

For a moment Sam feels like a good brother. 

In another moment he realizes Cas is looking pretty beefy. And he's dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel and Sam really doesn't want to see his brother's boner. He's got places to be.

* * *

There's a row of showers in the bunker like a prison or a high school gym, each stall separated by a wall of tile. The third one furthest from the entrance is still running, but Lucifer isn't quite in it. He's clearly wet and covered in soap bubbles, so some showering has to have happened at some point, but now he's just scratching at his hips absentmindedly, mouth pulled in a tiny frown. Sam tries to just back away and pretend he isn't seeing anything, but Lucifer snaps up his head and pins him right there. 

"You don't need to check on me," Lucifer says. 

Well, Sam can't really deny it. "Water's been running for a long time."

"I'm fine. I've taken showers before," he says, but he doesn't sound too sure about it.

"....Wait, you've been human for what, six months now? And you've never taken a shower?"

Color rises in Lucifer's face. He must not be aware of how much his face is giving away, given that he's still trying to pull off stoic. "Please, Sam. I've had six showers already."

"So... you're averaging one a month."

"No, in the past six weeks. At the shelter. Sometimes it's the only chance I get to visit the local cockroach population. I still don't see what's so gross about them," he adds. "Do you have any here? They're such resilient creatures. I wouldn't be surprised."

Ho - ly shit. 

Alright. Come to think about it, why are cockroaches so reviled? Too many legs, is it? Do they carry any more bacteria than anything else? Sam kind of has a thing about roaches. All those motels, and there's one standout mental image from when he was twelve in Georgia and doing laundry only to catch a writhing black mass behind the washer with the corner of his eye. John was furious with him for losing two pairs of socks in his panicked dash away from that bristling hellscape. Great, that's a memory he really needed right now. "I haven't seen any roaches here. Sorry. But... so all that time? You just... wow. But now you're up to, what, one a week? Good for you. That's real impressive." 

"Don't give me sarcasm," Lucifer sneers. "If it wasn't for you, I could shower daily."

"So your poor hygiene is my fault?"

"It's this body." He jerks his arms up, waving in a useless gesture. "This isn't it."

"God, are you - "

"Don't - don't say that, Sam. I'm just saying, I had a body promised to me a very, very long time ago. And now it's standing in front of me and I'm in this." Bringing his hands back together, Lucifer cracks his knuckles, staring uncomfortably down at his thin chest, bony knees. He's put on a little bit of weight, bulked up in the arms a bit. Probably from whatever work he does at the shelter. He looks normal, average, well-kept even. "It's not... I've been in it long enough. I know. It's just that I'd rather pretend it doesn't exist. This act of stripping naked and washing is exceedingly intimate. I have to look at it, and I have to touch it, and it isn't right, it doesn't look right."

"You'd rather have my body."

"Exactly," Lucifer says. It sounds, well. Terrifying. But he's just tracing patterns in the soap suds on his chest and staring unhappily at the shower spray and looking anything but terrifying. "I see so many humans in so many bodies, and they just live with them. They never got a chance to choose anything, they're victims of their own DNA. I never expected to be in that situation. I was supposed to have you. God promised you to me, and then he broke that promise. All in the name of what? Free will? I'm being forced to learn a lesson in free will - tell me, Sam, how is that logical?"

There really isn't an answer for that. Not one Sam has right now, anyways. 

Lucifer closes his eyes and steps back into the shower stall. Somewhere is a dog Sam should be petting.

* * *

Jody likes the Chihuahua. She's kind of old and lazy and likes to spend her time curled up in a warm spot. Preferably a lap. It could be a good fit, Sam decides. Most of the dogs seem to be getting grey around the muzzle - how do doggy years translate to Hell years, anyways - so it's not like he's saddling anyone with a fifteen-year commitment. Jody just could use an extra body around the house. He can make the drive tomorrow morning, drop off Growley at Nate's cabin in Wyoming.

Suddenly Sam isn't the only human in the library. 

Soft, cautious steps. Not Dean's furious stomp or Cas's despondent shuffle. 

Lucifer reaches around and lifts Sam's hand by the wrist. It's like a tire's been popped, everything grinding to a stop and all the air whooshing out of the room. There's a stench of seawater and cigarettes, which means he must have put on the same clothes he was wearing before. Not much progress on the personal hygiene front, then. Sam isn't going to flinch. 

Careful, cold fingers run down his forearm. Tracing the ridge of a vein. Squeezing the muscle, testing the give. "This is you," he says firmly. Steering by the elbow, he moves the arm until Sam's hand is resting on the back of his own. "And this is me."

"As long as you've figured out the difference." Sam didn't say that. It just spilled out. 

"It's something I'm working on," Lucifer says, and then he's dropping Sam's arm. Walks across the library, and squats to pick up the little yellow dog where she's hiding between the shelves. "We need to find Castiel and get on our way, don't we?" It takes Sam a minute to realize he's talking to the dog. Another to realize that Lucifer's about to run off and light a powder keg.

"Ah. You might wanna hold off on that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi i have four dogs right now i'm bout that the dog life
> 
>  
> 
> [check it](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/post/139940006896/i-have-a-lot-of-dogs)


	21. Castiel

The sun is shining, the earth is spinning, and Cas is an idiot. It's an immutable fact of the universe. 

Except he isn't supposed to be hating himself anymore. So there's a logical conundrum for him to ponder while Dean speaks softly and hesitates to look him in the eye or even at him at all, because yeah, he's still kind of naked but for the towel. 

So he didn't take advantage of Dean and it's an insult that he could even think that. At least, that's what Dean says, but Cas just bites back his retorts and lets him talk.

Dean Winchester is thirty-five years old. Castiel is six and a half billion years old. Excuse him if he feels like he's taking advantage of Dean. Excuse him if he feels like it isn't right for Dean to hold so much influence over him. 

But Dean looks at him like he's something good and worth holding on to, and in his weakness Cas allows it. He doesn't deserve any of this. 

How is it possible that Dean doesn't think he deserves Cas?

This could be so easy. It _is_ easy. 

But it won't fix Cas. Dean is a salve, but the wound needs stitches and there's no getting past that. No matter what the songs on the radio and the shows on Sam's tv tell him, love does not heal all. 

It is because he loves Dean that he can't use him as a crutch. Dean deserves Cas, not the shattered husk of an ex-archangel. It's up to Cas to find out what exactly that name means. So much of himself is shaped around Dean that he isn't sure what else there is inside of him. There's also the fact that his entire life before Dean turned out to be a lie. Something untrustworthy and tampered with to the point where even Castiel was not Cas.

First he has to learn how to be his own person. Then he can learn how to be Dean's. 

The words sound clumsy but they're real. He doesn't know how to express himself properly, not without trampling this new tender thing between them. But Dean puts a hand on his shoulders and nods like he understands. This is a lesson Dean must have learned when Sam went to Stanford ten years ago, and Cas is suddenly ashamed of himself for being surprised by this. For expecting anything less of Dean Winchester. 

"I will always come back to you," he tells Dean. "You are my home. But I need this."

Dean makes the first move this time, a gentle press on the corner of Cas's mouth. "Whatever you need, Cas."

"I'm not running away."

"Hell no you're not. But you're getting a new phone first. And you're going to call. You're always gonna answer," Dean says, mock-threatening. 

Cas chokes. Grabs Dean by both shoulders and bows his head against his chest. _I always come when you call._

_I prayed to you, every night._

Cas makes a private vow in his head, whispers it in the space between the two of them. 

So, first things first. They get two phones. Lucifer takes it as a personal insult, but slides it in his pocket anyways. They ride back to the shelter one last time to say goodbye and Lucifer is assured that he can always come back. Cas, too, but he just thanks Luther without telling him that he has a home for certain now. Sam takes them on his dog delivery run to somewhere in Wyoming where he knows a guy who knows a guy who has banger of a '76 Volvo for cheap. 

"Good luck finding Michael," Sam says, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning against the car. Dean didn't come but it's fine; this isn't good-bye.

Cas glances at his brother. "Is that the plan?"

Powder-blue sidewalls have caught Lucifer in a trance. He bounces the yellow dog in his arms as he takes in the sight of the car. "I believe so. But we have one stop to make first."

* * *

Cas calls Dean in Hastings, Nebraska. Snaps photos of corn fields and crows and a diner that he thinks he remembers visiting with Dean and Sam back during the days of the Apocalypse. Dean asks about the yellow dog rather than mention Lucifer. Teaching Lucifer how to text wasn't a good idea. But apparently Sam requires updates on the dog, so Dean will just have to deal with Lucifer texting his brother. 

She seems to enjoy the car. Lucifer keeps her on his lap and rolls the window all the way down. Sometimes she props her paws up and sticks her head out the window, but most of the time she's sleeping. Lucifer pats her gingerly, unsure of how to fit his hand on her head. They're a distracting sight in the passenger seat. 

Lucifer is also terrible at giving directions. It takes them two days longer than it should and eventually Cas gives up and buys a series of detailed maps. He'll have to work his way up to Dean's intimate knowledge of every highway and byway in the United States.

Fair Grove, Missouri seems like an unauspicious start to their journey. Lucifer steers Cas towards a trailer park, shifting nervously in his seat the entire time. He commands a stop in front of a little trailer surrounded by a chain-link fence. There's a small garden, an assortment of flowers and windchimes. The young woman in front is picking tomatoes. She pushes back her hat and sits back on her haunches with a frown.

"You again? The hell?"

"Hello, Brandy," Lucifer says. 

"Oh, so we're buddies now?" Brandy says. "Who's that?"

"That's my brother." Cas just stands back awkwardly, unsure of the situation. The girl doesn't seem too upset, at least. 

She stands up, putting her hands on her hips. "Is this, like, stage eleven or whatever when you go around to everyone and apologize? 'Cuz, uh, congratulations and all, but we're good. You weren't the craziest junkie I ever saw or anything, man."

"I don't know. I never paid much attention during those meetings," Lucifer says. "And I'm not apologizing. This is thanks."

"You don't hafta - "

"Yes, I do," Lucifer interrupts. "Examples of the decency of humanity should not go unrewarded. Also." The yellow dog is still by the gate, burying her nose in flowers and wagging her tail so fast her entire butt is shaking. Lucifer calls her over and Brandy's eyes go wide. "You live alone, but you have kindness to spare. She's very intelligent, gentle, and well-trained. She's also getting on in years, but if she has any health issues I know a man who will take care of any costs. I have a sack of her food in the trunk of the car. You even put a fence up around your yard. It's a good match."

Clearly Sam has been telling Lucifer quite a bit about dogs. 

Brandy is shaking her head. "Oh, no, no, no, you ain't giving me a dog, I - " But the dog is sniffing her feet. Then she sits, raises an experimental paw.

"She also has your eyes," Lucifer says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

"That's super creepy. You're fucking crazy." Brandy says. But she's leaning over and scratching her behind the ears. "You know it's like, super irresponsible to just give away dogs. This is not okay."

"Clearly I can't be trusted with a dog. You'll have to keep her safe."

"Uh huh. Yeah, well, she's lucky she's cute. She got a name?"

"No. So...you'll take her?"

"The hell you think? Like I'm gonna let your crazy ass run off with her. You're his brother, yeah?" She's looking over at Cas now. "You keeping him in check?"

Cas shifts, avoids Lucifer's smirk. "I... suppose I am now."

"Least there's someone who gives a crap. But don't go lettin' him do this kinda shit. Not everyone's gonna be as good as me. Just, uh, give me your number before I order you the hell offa my property, okay? Just in case," she says, nodding towards the dog. 

A third entry in Cas's address book, sitting right above Dean's name.

As they drive away from the trailer park Lucifer kicks his legs up on the dashboard, mouth disconcertingly turned up at the corners. It's not a quite a smile. Just simple satisfaction. 

The sun is shining, the Earth is spinning, and Cas turns left, signalling for the open road.

* * *

It's only been six weeks. Starry nights and wooded mountains and endless rolling fields. Two false leads on Michael. Not that they're looking too hard. It's some kind of a hazy goal to give them some sense of purpose. But the real purpose of the trip is the dry, sucking heat of the Mojave Desert. Cathedrals of giant redwoods in the Cascades. The alien red landscape of Zion National Park. Families ask Cas to take their pictures. Lucifer accepts cigarettes from a hundred strangers. They spend a night in a well-populated campground and watch the flicker of other human's fires at night, listen to their songs. They drink their beers warily when they first visit a bar but somehow they wake up in the back of someone else's truck. A trio of old hippies smoke them out in a rest area and they spend hours trading shed snakeskins for wire-wrapped rocks. Speaking of which, Lucifer has been acquiring plenty of snakeskins from somewhere Cas doesn't ask about. Cottonmouths don't even live in the Pacific Northwest but he finds one anyways. Someone is keeping a watchful eye still. They don't mention it. 

Cas calls Dean whenever he feels like it. He talks to Sam, too. Lucifer won't let Cas see his phone, as it's supposedly just an emergency back-up, but sometimes he'll direct them to some roadside attraction or diner, shrug and say Sam recommended they check it out. So they're in Boulder Junction, Wisconsin, six weeks into the trip, when Cas slides his phone across the dashboard and nods to Lucifer. Lets him call Dean first. Lucifer holds the phone as if it'll bite, but he's practised the words three times already.

"So... get this? We've found a case."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this it? Is this the end?
> 
> with my first Big Fanfiction I sure have learned a lot. I intended it as an alternate season nine somehow ending with Human Lucifer in the Bunker but it became something else entirely. I am sure I'd like to go fix some typos or something at some point. There will definitely be more of this little verse. and holy heckles i am never posting anything as a wip again.
> 
> Now, I wouldn't have been able to do this if it wasn't for you. Yeah, you. I love you. Thank you.
> 
> and if you've really read it this far, i would just love to hear what you think. Okay. Have a beautiful day.


End file.
